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GENTLE  JULIA 


BOOKS    BY 
BOOTH    TARKINGTON 

ALICE  ADAMS 
BEASLEY'S  CHKISTMAS  PARTY 

BEAUTY  AND  THE  JACOBIN 

CHERRY 
CONQUEST  OF  CANAAN 

GENTLE  JULIA 

HARLEQUIN  AND  COLUMBINE 
HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

IN  THE  ARENA 
MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

PENROD 

PENROD  AND  SAM 
RAMSEY  MILHOLLAND 

SEVENTEEN 
THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

THE  FLIRT 
THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

THE   GIBSON   UPRIGHT 

THE  GUEST  OF  QUESNAY 

THE  MAGNIFICENT  AMBERSONS 

THE  MAN  FROM  HOME 

THE  TURMOIL 
THE  TWO  VANREVELS 


JULIA 


GENTLE  JULIA 

BY 
BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
C.  ALLAN  GILBERT 

AND 
WORTH  BREHM 


GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y.,  AND  TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1922 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 
Julia Frontispiece 


FACING  PAGE 


"Herbert  attempted  to  continue  the   drown 
ing  out      ..."..-....      200 

'  Well,   men      ...      I    don't    want  to 
see  any  loafin'  around  here,  men'"     .      .      280 

"He  stared  at  her.      His  elbow  sagged  from 

the  window  "  .  352 


GENTLE  JULIA 

"Rising  to  the  point  of  order,  this  one  said 
that  since  the  morgue  was  not  yet  established 
as  the  central  monument  and  inspiration  of 
our  settlement,  and  true  philosophy  was  as 
well  expounded  in  the  convivial  manner  as 
in  the  miserable,  he  claimed  for  himself,  not 
the  license,  but  the  right,  to  sing  a  ballad,  if 
he  chose,  upon  even  so. solemn  a  matter  as 
the  misuse  of  the  town  pump  by  witches." 


GENTLE  JULIA 

CHAPTER  ONE 

SUPERCILIOUSNESS  is  not  safe  after  all,  be 
cause  a  person  who  forms  the  habit  of  wearing 
it  may  some  day  find  his  lower  lip  grown 
permanently  projected  beyond  the  upper,  so  that  he 
can't  get  it  back,  and  must  go  through  life  looking 
like  the  King  of  Spain.  This  was  once  foretold 
as  a  probable  culmination  of  Florence  Atwater's 
still  plastic  profile,  if  Florence  didn't  change  her 
way  of  thinking;  and  upon  Florence's  remarking 
dreamily  that  the  King  of  Spain  was  an  awf'ly  han'- 
some  man,  her  mother  retorted:  "But  not  for  a  girl!" 
She  meant,  of  course,  that  a  girl  who  looked  too  much 
like  the  King  of  Spain  would  not  be  handsome,  but 
her  daughter  decided  to  misunderstand  her. 

"Why,  mamma,  he's  my  Very  Ideal!  I'd  marry 
him  to-morrow!" 

Mrs.  Atwater  paused  in  her  darning,  and  let  the 


2     IH  GENTLE  JULIA 

stocking  collapse  flaccidly  into  the  work-basket  in 
her  lap.  "Not  at  barely  thirteen,  would  you?"  she 
said.  "It  seems  to  me  you're  just  a  shade  too 
young  to  be  marrying  a  man  who's  already  got  a  wife 
and  several  children.  Where  did  you  pick  up  that 
'I'd-marry-him- to-morrow,'  Florence?  " 

"Oh,  I  hear  that  everywhere!"  returned  the 
damsel,  lightly.  "Everybody  says  things  like  that. 
I  heard  Aunt  Julia  say  it.  I  heard  Kitty  Silver 
say  it." 

"About  the  King  of  Spain?"  Mrs.  Atwater  in 
quired. 

"I  don't  know  who  they  were  saying  it  about," 
said  Florence,  "but  they  were  saying  it.  I  don't 
mean  they  were  saying  it  together;  I  heard  one  say 
it  one  time  and  the  other  say  it  some  other  time.  I 
think  Kitty  Silver  was  saying  it  about  some  coloured 
man.  She  proba'ly  wouldn't  want  to  marry  any 
white  man;  at  least  I  don't  expect  she  would.  She's 
been  married  to  a  couple  of  coloured  men,  anyhow; 
and  she  was  married  twice  to  one  of  'em,  and  the 
other  one  died  in  between.  Anyhow,  that's  what  she 
told  me.  She  weighed  over  two  hunderd  pounds 
the  first  time  she  was  married,  and  she  weighed  over 
two  hunderd-and-seventy  the  last  time  she  was  mar- 


GENTLE  JULIA  3 

ried  to  the  first  one  over  again,  but  she  says  she  don't 
know  how  much  she  weighed  when  she  was  married 
to  the  one  in  between.  She  says  she  never  got 
weighed  all  the  time  she  was  married  to  that  one. 
Did  Kitty  Silver  ever  tell  you  that,  mamma?" 

"Yes,  often!"  Mrs.  Atwater  replied.  "I  don't 
think  it's  very  entertaining;  and  it's  not  what  we 
were  talking  about.  I  was  trying  to  tell  you " 

"I  know,"  Florence  interrupted.  "You  said  I'd 
get  my  face  so's  my  underlip  wouldn't  go  back  where 
it  ought  to,  if  I  didn't  quit  turning  up  my  nose  at 
people  I  think  are  beneath  con  temp'.  I  guess  the 
best  thing  would  be  to  just  feel  that  way  without 
letting  on  by  my  face,  and  then  there  wouldn't  be 
any  danger." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater.  "That's  not  what  I 
meant.  You  mustn't  let  your  feelings  get  their 
jiose  turned  up,  or  their  underlip  out,  either,  because 
feelings  can  grow  warped  just  as  well  as " 

But  her  remarks  had  already  caused  her  daughter 
to  follow  a  trail  of  thought  divergent  from  the  main 
road  along  which  the  mother  feebly  struggled  to  pro 
gress.  "Mamma,"  said  Florence,  "do  you  b'lieve 
it's  true  if  a  person  swallows  an  apple-seed  or  a 
lemon-seed  or  a  watermelon-seed,  f'r  instance,  do 


4  GENTLE  JULIA 

you  think  they'd  have  a  tree  grow  up  inside  of  'em. 
Henry  Rooter  said  it  would,  yesterday." 

Mrs.  Atwater  looked  a  little  anxious.  "Did  you 
swallow  some  sort  of  seed?"  she  asked. 

"It  was  only  some  grape-seeds,  mamma;  and 
you  needn't  think  I  got  to  take  anything  for  it,  be 
cause  I've  swallowed  a  million,  I  guess,  in  my  time!" 

"In  your  time?"  her  mother  repeated,  seemingly 
mystified. 

"Yes,  and  so  have  you  and  papa,"  Florence  went 
on.  "I've  seen  you  when  you  ate  grapes.  Henry 
said  maybe  not,  about  grapes,  because  I  told  him 
all  what  I've  just  been  telling  you,  mamma,  how  I 
must  have  swallowed  a  million,  in  my  time,  and  he 
said  grape-seeds  weren't  big  enough  to  get  a  good 
holt,  but  he  said  if  I  was  to  swallow  an  apple-seed  a 
tree  would  start  up,  and  in  a  year  or  two,  maybe, 
it  would  grow  up  so't  I  couldn't  get  my  mouth  shut 
on  account  the  branches."  / 

"Nonsense!" 

"Henry  said  another  boy  told  him,  but  he  said  you 
could  ask  anybody  and  they'd  tell  you  it  was  true. 
Henry  said  this  boy  that  told  him's  uncle  died  of  it 
when  he  was  eleven  years  old,  and  this  boy  knew  a 
grown  woman  that  was  pretty  sick  from  it  right  now. 


GENTLE  JULIA  5 

I  expect  Henry  wasn't  telling  such  a  falsehood  about 
it,  mamma,  but  proba'ly  this  boy  did,  because  I 
didn't  believe  it  for  a  minute!  Henry  Rooter  says  he 
never  told  a  lie  yet,  in  his  whole  life,  mamma,  and  he 
wasn't  going  to  begin  now."  She  paused  for  a 
moment,  then  added:  "I  don't  believe  a  word  he 
says!" 

She  continued  to  meditate  disapprovingly  upon 
Henry  Rooter.  "Old  thing!"  she  murmured  gloom 
ily,  for  she  had  indeed  known  moments  of  apprehen 
sion  concerning  the  grape-seeds.  "Nothing  but  an 
old  thing — what  he  is!"  she  repeated  inaudibly. 

"Florence,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater,  "don't  you  want  to 
slip  over  to  grandpa's  and  ask  Aunt  Julia  if  she  has 
a  very  large  darning  needle?  And  don't  forget  not  to 
look  supercilious  when  you  meet  people  on  the  way. 
Even  your  grandfather  has  been  noticing  it,  and  he 
was  the  one  that  spoke  of  it  to  me.  Don't  forget!" 

"Yes'm." 

Florence  went  out  of  the  house  somewhat  mood 
ily,  but  afternoon  sunshine  enlivened  her;  and,  open 
ing  the  picket  gate,  she  stepped  forth  with  a  fair  re 
newal  of  her  chosen  manner  toward  the  public, 
though  just  at  that  moment  no  public  was  in  sight. 
Miss  Atwater's  underlip  resumed  the  position  for 


6  GENTLE  JULIA 

which  her  mother  had  predicted  that  regal  Spanish 
fixity,  and  her  eyebrows  and  nose  were  all  three  per 
ceptibly  elevated.  At  the  same  time,  her  eyelids 
were  half  lowered,  while  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
somewhat  deepened,  as  by  a  veiled  mirth,  so  that 
this  well-dressed  child  strolled  down  the  shady 
sidewalk  wearing  an  expression  not  merely  of  high 
bred  contempt  but  also  of  mysterious  derision. 
It  was  an  expression  that  should  have  put  any  pedes 
trian  in  his  place,  and  it  seems  a  pity  that  the  long 
street  before  her  appeared  to  be  empty  of  human  life. 
No  one  even  so  much  as  glanced  from  a  window  of 
any  of  the  comfortable  houses,  set  back  at  the  end 
of  their  "front  walks"  and  basking  amid  pleasant 
lawns;  for,  naturally,  this  was  the  "best  residence 
street"  in  the  town,  since  all  the  Atwaters  and  other 
relatives  of  Florence  dwelt  there.  Happily,  an 
old  gentleman  turned  a  corner  before  she  had  gone 
a  hundred  yards,  and,  as  he  turned  in  her  direction,  it 
became  certain  that  they  would  meet.  He  was  a 
stranger — that  is  to  say,  he  was  unknown  to  Florence 
— and  he  was  well  dressed;  while  his  appearance  of 
age  (proba'ly  at  least  forty  or  sixty  or  something) 
indicated  that  he  might  have  sense  enough  to  be 
interested  in  other  interesting  persons. 


GENTLE  JULIA  7 

*( 
An   extraordinary  change  took  place  upon  the 

surface  of  Florence  Atwater:  all  superciliousness  and 
derision  of  the  world  vanished;  her  eyes  opened  wide, 
and  into  them  came  a  look  at  once  far-away  and 
intently  fixed.  Also,  a  frown  of  concentration  ap 
peared  upon  her  brow,  and  her  lips  moved  silently, 
but  with  rapidity,  as  if  she  repeated  to  herself 
something  of  almost  tragic  import.  Florence  had 
recently  read  a  newspaper  account  of  the  earlier  strug 
gles  of  a  now  successful  actress:  As  a  girl,  this  deter 
mined  genius  went  about  the  streets  repeating  the 
lines  of  various  roles  to  herself — constantly  rehears 
ing,  in  fact,  upon  the  public  thoroughfares,  so  carried 
away  was  she  by  her  intended  profession  and  so  set 
upon  becoming  famous.  This  was  what  Florence 
was  doing  now,  except  that  she  rehearsed  no  role  in 
particular,  and  the  words  formed  by  her  lips  were 
neither  sequential  nor  consequential,  being,  in  fact, 
the  following:  "Oh,  the  darkness  .  .  .  never, 
never,  never!  .  .  .  you  couldn't  .  .  .he 
wouldn't  .  .  .  Ah,  mother!  .  .  .  Where  the 
river  swings  so  slowly  .  .  .  Ah,  no!"  Never 
theless,  she  was  doing  all  she  could  for  the  elderly 
stranger,  and  as  they  came  closer,  encountered,  and 
passed  on,  she  had  the  definite  impression  that  he 


8  GENTLE  JULIA 

did  indeed  take  her  to  be  a  struggling  young  actress 
who  would  some  day  be  famous — and  then  he  might 
see  her  on  a  night  of  triumph  and  recognize  her  as  the 
girl  he  had  passed  on  the  street,  that  day,  so  long 
ago!  But  by  this  time,  the  episode  was  concluded; 
the  footsteps  of  him  for  whom  she  was  performing 
had  become  inaudible  behind  her,  and  she  began  to 
forget  him;  which  was  as  well,  since  he  went  out  of 
her  life  then,  and  the  two  never  met  again.  The 
struggling  young  actress  disappeared,  and  the  pre 
vious  superiority  was  resumed.  It  became  elabo 
rately  emphasized  as  a  boy  of  her  own  age  emerged 
from  the  "side  yard"  of  a  house  at  the  next  corner 
and  came  into  her  view. 

The  boy  caught  sight  of  Florence  in  plenty  of  time 
to  observe  this  emphasis,  which  was  all  too  obvi 
ously  produced  by  her  sensations  at  sight  of  himself; 
and,  after  staring  at  her  for  a  moment,  he  allowed 
his  own  expression  to  become  one  of  painful  fatigue. 
Then  he  slowly  swung  about,  as  if  to  return  into 
that  side-yard  obscurity  whence  he  had  come; 
making  clear  by  this  pantomime  that  he  reciprocally 
found  the  sight  of  her  insufferable.  In  truth,  he  did; 
for  he  was  not  only  her  neighbour  but  her  first- 
cousin  as  well,  and  a  short  month  older,  though  taller 


GENTLE  JULIA  9 

than  she — tall  beyond  his  years,  taller  than  need  be, 
in  fact,  and  still  in  knickerbockers.  However,  his 
parents  may  not  have  been  mistaken  in  the  matter, 
for  it  was  plain  that  he  looked  as  well  in  knicker 
bockers  as  he  could  have  looked  in  anything.  He  had 
no  visible  beauty,  though  it  was  possible  to  hope  for 
him  that  by  the  time  he  reached  manhood  he  would 
be  more  tightly  put  together  than  he  seemed  at 
present;  and  indeed  he  himself  appeared  to  have 
some  consciousness  of  insecurity  in  the  fastenings 
of  his  members,  for  it  was  his  habit  (observable 
even  now  as  he  turned  to  avoid  Miss  Atwater)  to 
haul  at  himself,  to  sag  and  hitch  about  inside  his 
clothes,  and  to  corkscrew  his  neck  against  the  swath 
ing  of  his  collar.  And  yet  there  were  times,  as  the 
most  affectionate  of  his  aunts  had  remarked,  when, 
for  a  moment  or  so,  he  appeared  to  be  almost  know 
ing;  and,  seeing  him  walking  before  her,  she  had 
almost  taken  him  for  a  young  man;  and  sometimes 
he  said  something  in  a  settled  kind  of  way  that  was  al 
most  adult.  This  fondest  aunt  went  on  to  add,  how 
ever,  that  of  course,  the  next  minute  after  one  of 
these  fleeting  spells,  he  was  sure  to  be  overtaken  by 
his  more  accustomed  moods,  when  his  eye  would 
again  fix  itself  with  fundamental  aimlessness  upon 


10  GENTLE  JULIA 

nothing.  In  brief,  he  was  at  the  age  when  he  spent 
most  of  his  time  changing  his  mind  about  things, 
or,  rather,  when  his  mind  spent  most  of  its  time 
changing  him  about  things;  and  this  was  what 
happened  now. 

After  turning  his  back  on  the  hateful  sight  well 
known  to  him  as  his  cousin  Florence  at  her  freshest, 
he  turned  again,  came  forth  from  his  place  of  resi 
dence,  and  joining  her  upon  the  pavement,  walked 
beside  her,  accompanying  her  without  greeting  or 
inquiry.  His  expression  of  fatigue,  indicating  her 
insufferableness,  had  not  abated;  neither  had  her 
air  of  being  a  duchess  looking  at  bugs. 

"You  are  a  pretty  one!"  he  said;  but  his  intention 
was  perceived  to  be  far  indeed  from  his  words. 

"Oh,  am  I,  Mister  Herbert  Atwater?"  Florence 
responded.  "I'm  awfly  glad  you  think  so!" 

"I  mean  about  what  Henry  Rooter  said,"  her 
cousin  explained.  "Henry  Rooter  told  me  he  made 
you  believe  you  were  goin'  to  have  a  grapevine 
climbin'  up  from  inside  of  you  because  you  ate  some 
grapes  with  the  seeds  in  'em.  He  says  you  thought 
you'd  haf  to  get  a  carpenter  to  build  a  little  arbour 
so  you  could  swallow  it  for  the  grapevine  to  grow 
on.  He  says " 


GENTLE  JULIA  11 

Florence  had  become  an  angry  pink.  "That  little 
Henry  Rooter  is  the  worst  falsehooder  in  this  town; 
and  I  never  believed  a  word  he  said  in  his  life!  Any 
way,  what  affairs  is  it  of  yours,  I'd  like  you  to  please 
be  so  kind  and  obliging  for  to  tell  me,  Mister  Her 
bert  Illings worth  Atwater,  Exquire!" 

"What  affairs?"  Herbert  echoed  in  plaintive 
satire.  "What  affairs  is  it  of  mine?  That's  just  the 
trouble!  It's  got  to  be  my  affairs  because  you're  my 
first-cousin.  My  goodness  /  didn't  have  anything 
to  do  with  you  being  my  cousin,  did  I?" 

"Well,  I  didn't!" 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Herbert. 
"What  I  want  to  know  is,  how  long  you  goin'  to 
keep  this  up?" 

"Keep  what  up?" 

"I  mean,  how  do  you  think  I  like  havin'  somebody 
like  Henry  Rooter  comin'  round  me  tellin'  what  they 
made  a  cousin  of  mine  believe,  and  more  than  thir 
teen  years  old,  goin'  on  fourteen  ever  since  about  a 
month  ago!" 

Florence  shouted:  "Oh,  for  goodness'  sakes!"  then 
moderated  the  volume  but  not  the  intensity  of  her 
tone.  "Kindly  reply  to  this.  Whoever  asked  you 
to  come  and  take  a  walk  with  me  to-day?" 


12  GENTLE  JULIA 

Herbert  protested  to  heaven.  "Why,  I  wouldn't 
take  a  walk  with  you  if  every  policeman  in  this  town 
tried  to  make  me!  I  wouldn't  take  a  walk  with  you 
if  they  brought  a  million  horses  and " 

"I  wouldn't  take  a  walk  with  you,"  Florence  in 
terrupted,  "if  they  brought  a  million  million  horses 
and  cows  and  camels  and " 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  Herbert  said.  "Not  if  / 
could  help  it!" 

But  by  this  time  Florence  had  regained  her  deri 
sive  superciliousness.  "There's  a  few  things  you 
could  help,"  she  said;  and  the  incautious  Herbert 
challenged  her  with  the  inquiry  she  desired. 

"What  could  I  help?" 

"I  should  think  you  could  help  bumpin'  into  me 
every  second  when  I'm  takin'  a  walk  on  my  own 
affairs,  and  walk  along  on  your  own  side  of  the  side 
walk,  anyway,  and  not  be  so  awkward  a  person  has 
to  keep  trippin'  over  you  about  every  time  I  try  to 
take  a  step!" 

Herbert  withdrew  temporarily  to  his  own  side 
of  the  pavement.  "Who?"  he  demanded  hotly. 
"Who  says  I'm  awkward?" 

"All  the  fam'ly,"  Miss  Atwater  returned,  with  a 
light  but  infuriating  laugh.  "You  bump  into  'em 


GENTLE  JULIA  13 

sideways  and  keep  gettin'  half  in  front  of  'em  when 
ever  they  try  to  take  a  step,  and  then  when  it  looks 
as  if  they'd  pretty  near  fall  over  you " 

"You  look  here!" 

"And  besides  all  that,"  Florence  went  on,  undis 
turbed,  "why,  you  generally  keep  kind  of  snorting, 
or  somep'n,  and  then  making  all  those  noises  in 
your  neck.  You  were  doin'  it  at  grandpa's  last 
Sunday  dinner  because  every  time  there  wasn't 
anybody  talking,  why,  everybody  could  hear  you 
plain  as  everything,  and  you  ought  to've  seen  grand 
pa  look  at  you!  He  looked  as  if  you'd  set  him  crazy 
if  you  didn't  quit  that  chuttering  and  duckling!" 

Herbert's  expression  partook  of  a  furious  astonish 
ment.  "I  don't  any  such  thing!"  he  burst  out. 
"I  guess  I  wouldn't  talk  much  about  last  Sunday 
dinner,  if  I  was  you  neither.  Who  got  caught  eatin' 
off  the  ice  cream  freezer  spoon  out  on  the  back  porch, 
if  you  please?  Yes,  and  I  guess  you  better  study  a 
little  grammar,  while  you're  about  it.  There's  no 
such  words  in  the  English  language  as  'duckling'  and 
^chuttering.'" 

"I  don't  care  what  language  they're  in,"  the  stub 
born  Florence  insisted.  "It's  what  you  do,  just 
the  same:  duckling  and  chuttering!" 


14  GENTLE  JULIA 

Herbert's  manners  went  to  pieces.  "Oh,  dry 
up!"  he  bellowed, 

"That's  a  nice  way  to  talk!     So  gentlemanly " 

"Well,  you  try  be  a  lady,  then!" 

"'Try!'"  Florence  echoed.  "Well,  after  that, 
I'll  just  politely  thank  you  to  dry  up,  yourself, 
Mister  Herbert  At  water!" 

At  this  Herbert  became  moody.  "Oh,  pfuff!" 
he  said;  and  for  some  moments  walked  in  silence. 
Then  he  asked:  "Where  you  goin',  Florence?" 

The  damsel  paused  at  a  gate  opening  upon  a 
broad  lawn  evenly  divided  by  a  brick  walk  that  led 
to  the  white-painted  wooden  veranda  of  an  ample 
and  honest  old  brick  house.  "High  there  to  grand 
pa's,  since  you  haf  to  know!"  she  said.  "And  thank 
you  for  your  delightful  comp'ny  which  I  never  asked 
for,  if  you  care  to  hear  the  truth  for  once  in  your 
life!" 

Herbert  meditated.  "Well,  I  got  nothin'  else  to 
do,  as  I  know  of,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  around  to 
the  back  door  so's  to  see  if  Kitty  Silver's  got  any 
thing." 

Then,  not  amiably,  but  at  least  inconsequently, 
they  passed  inside  the  gate  together.  Their  brows 
were  fairly  unclouded;  no  special  marks  of  conflict 


GENTLE  JULIA  15 

remained;  for  they  had  met  and  conversed  in  a  man 
ner  customary  rather  than  unusual. 

They  followed  a  branch  of  the  brick  walk  and 
passed  round  the  south  side  of  the  house,  where  a 
small  orchard  of  apple-trees  showed  generous  promise. 
Hundreds  of  gay  little  round  apples  among  the  leaves 
glanced  the  high  lights  to  and  fro  on  their  polished 
green  cheeks  as  a  breeze  hopped  through  the  yard, 
while  the  shade  beneath  trembled  with  coquettishly 
moving  disks  of  sunshine  like  golden  plates.  A 
pattern  of  orange  light  and  blue  shadow  was  laid  like 
a  fanciful  plaid  over  the  lattice  and  the  wide,  slightly 
sagging  steps  of  the  elderly  "back  porch";  and  here, 
taking  her  ease  upon  these  steps,  sat  a  middle- 
aged  coloured  woman  of  continental  proportions. 
Beyond  all  contest,  she  was  the  largest  coloured  wo 
man  in  that  town,  though  her  height  was  not  unusual, 
and  she  had  a  rather  small  face.  That  is  to  say, 
as  Florence  had  once  explained  to  her,  her  face  was 
small  but  the  other  parts  of  her  head  were  terribly 
wide.  Beside  her  was  a  circular  brown  basket,  of  a 
type  suggesting  arts-and-crafts;  it  was  made  with 
a  cover,  and  there  was  a  bow  of  brown  silk  upon 
the  handle. 

"What  you  been  up  to  to-day,  Kitty   Silver?" 


16  GENTLE  JULIA 

Herbert  asked  genially.  "Any  thing  special?"  Forthis 
was  the  sequel  to  his  "so's  we  can  see  if  Kitty  Silver's 
got  anything."  But  Mrs.  Silver  discouraged  him. 

"No,  I  ain't,"  she  replied.  "I  ain't,  an'  I  ain't 
goin'  to." 

"I  thought  you  pretty  near  always  made  cookies 
on  Tuesday,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  ain't  this  Tuesday,"  said  Kitty  Silver. 
"I  ain't,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to.  You  might  dess  well 
g'on  home  ri'  now.  I  ain't,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to." 

Docility  was  no  element  of  Mrs.  Silver's  present 
mood,  and  Herbert's  hopeful  eyes  became  blank,  as 
his  gaze  wandered  from  her  head  to  the  brown  basket 
beside  her.  The  basket  did  not  interest  him;  the 
ribbon  gave  it  a  quality  almost  at  once  excluding 
it  from  his  consciousness.  On  the  contrary,  the 
ribbon  had  drawn  Florence's  attention,  and  she  stared 
at  the  basket  eagerly. 

"What  you  got  there,  Kitty  Silver?"  she  asked. 

"What  I  got  where?" 

"In  that  basket." 

"Nemmine  what  I  got  'n  'at  basket,"  said  Mrs. 
Silver  crossly,  but  added  inconsistently:  "I  dess  wish 
somebody  ast  me  what  I  got  'n  'at  basket!  I  ain't  no 
cat- wash  woman  fer  nobody!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  17 

"Cats!"  Florence  cried.  "Are  there  cats  in  that 
basket,  Kitty  Silver?  Let's  look  at  'em ! " 

The  lid  of  the  basket,  lifted  by  the  eager,  slim 
hand  of  Miss  Atwater,  rose  to  disclose  two  cats  of 
an  age  slightly  beyond  kittenhood.  They  were  of 
a  breed  unfamiliar  to  Florence,  and  she  did  not  obey 
the  impulse  that  usually  makes  a  girl  seize  upon  any 
young  cat  at  sight  and  caress  it.  Instead,  she 
looked  at  them  with  some  perplexity,  and  after  a 
moment  inquired:  "Are  they  really  cats,  Kitty  Silver, 
do  you  b'lieve?" 

"Cats  what  she  done  tole  me"  the  coloured 
woman  replied.  "You  betta  shet  lid  down,  you  don' 
wan'  'em  run  away,  'cause  they  ain't  yoosta  livin' 
'n  'at  basket  yit;  an'  no  matter  whut  kine  o'  cats 
they  is  or  they  isn't,  one  thing  true:  they  wile  cats!" 

"But  what  makes  their  hair  so  long?"  Florence 
asked.  "I  never  saw  cats  with  hair  a  couple  inches 
long  like  that." 

"Miss  Julia  say  they  Berjum  cats." 

"What?" 

"I  ain't  tellin'  no  mo'n  she  tole  me.  You'  aunt 
say  they  Berjum  cats." 

"Persian,"  said  Herbert.  "That's  nothing.  I've 
seen  plenty  Persian  cats.  My  goodness,  I  should 


18  GENTLE  JULIA 

think  you'd  seen  a  Persian  cat  at  your  age.  Thir 
teen  goin'  on  fourteen!" 

"Well,  I  have  seen  Persian  cats  plenty  times,  I 
guess,"  Florence  said.  "I  thought  Persian  cats 
were  white,  and  these  are  kind  of  gray." 

At  this  Kitty  Silver  permitted  herself  to  utter  an 
embittered  laugh.  "You  wrong!"  she  said.  "These 
cats,  they  white;  yes'm!" 

"  Why,  they  aren't  either !     They're  gray  as " 

"No'm,"  said  Mrs.  Silver.  "They  plum  spang 
white,  else  you'  Aunt  Julia  gone  out  her  mind;  me  or 
her,  one.  I  say:  'Miss  Julia,  them  gray  cats.' 
'White,'  she  say.  'Them  two  cats  is  white  cats,'  she 
say.  'Them  cats  been  crated,'  she  say.  'They 
been  livin'  in  a  crate  on  a  dirty  express  train  fer  th'ee 
fo'  days,'  she  say.  'Them  cats  gone  got  all  smoke' 
up  thataway,'  she  say.  'No'm,  Miss  Julia,'  I  say, 
'No'm,  Miss  Julia,  they  ain't  no  train,'  I  say,  'they 
ain't  no  train  kin  take  an'  smoke  two  white  cats  up  like 
these  cats  so's  they  hair  is  gray  clean  plum  up  to 
they  hide.'  You  betta  put  the  lid  down,  I  tell 
you!" 

Florence  complied,  just  in  time  to  prevent  one 
of  the  young  cats  from  leaping  out  of  the  basket, 
but  she  did  not  fasten  the  cover.  Instead,  she 


GENTLE  JULIA  19 

knelt,  and,  allowing  a  space  of  half  an  inch  to  inter 
vene  between  the  basket  and  the  rim  of  the  cover, 
peered  within  at  the  occupants.  "I  believe  the  one 
to  this  side's  a  he,"  she  said.  "It's  got  greenisher 
eyes  than  the  other  one;  that's  the  way  you  can  al 
ways  tell.  I  b'lieve  this  one's  a  he  and  the  other 
one's  a  she." 

"I  ain't  stedyin'  about  no  he  an'  she!" 

"What  did  Aunt  Julia  say?"  Florence  asked. 

"Whut  you'  Aunt  Julia  say  when?" 

"When  you  told  her  these  were  gray  cats  and  not 
white  cats?" 

"She  told  me  take  an'  clean  'em,"  said  Kitty  Sil 
ver.  "She  say,  she  say  she  want  em  clean'  up 
spick  an'  spang  befo'  Mista  Sammerses  git  here 
to  call  an'  see  'em."  And  she  added  morosely: 
"I  ain't  no  cat- wash  woman !" 

"She  wants  you  to  bathe  'em?"  Florence  inquired, 
but  Kitty  Silver  did  not  reply  immediately.  She 
breathed  audibly,  with  a  strange  effect  upon  vasty 
outward  portions  of  her,  and  then  gave  an  incom 
parably  dulcet  imitation  of  her  own  voice,  as  she 
interpreted  her  use  of  it  during  the  recent  inter 
view. 

"'Miss  Julia,  ma'am,'  I  say — 'Miss  Julia,  ma'am, 


20  GENTLE  JULIA 

my  bizniss  cookin'  vittles,'  I  say.  'Miss  Julia, 
ma'am/  I  tole  her,  'Miss  Julia,  ma'am,  I  cook  fer 
you'  pa,  an'  cook  fer  you'  f am'ly  year  in,  year  out,  an* 
I  hope  an'  pursue,  whiles  some  might  make  com 
plaint,  I  take  whatever  I  find,  an*  I  leave  whatever 
I  find.  No'm,  Miss  Julia,  ma'am,'  I  say — 'no'm, 
Miss  Julia,  ma'am,  I  ain't  no  cat-washwoman!'" 

"What  did  Aunt  Julia  say  then?" 

"She  say,  she  say:  'Di'n  I  tell  you  take  them  cats 
downstairs  an'  clean  'em?'  she  say.  I  ain't  no 
body's  cat- wash  woman !" 

Florence  was  becoming  more  and  more  interested. 
"I  should  think  that  would  be  kind  of  fun,"  she  said. 
"To  be  a  cat- wash  woman.  /  wouldn't  mind  that 
at  all:  I'd  kind  of  like  it.  I  expect  if  you  was  a  cat- 
washwoman,  Kitty  Silver,  you'd  be  pretty  near  the 
only  one  was  in  the  world.  I  wonder  if  they  do 
have  'em  any  place,  cat- wash  women." 

"I  don'  know  if  they  got  'em  some  place,"  said 
Kitty  Silver,  "an'  I  don't  know  if  they  ain't  got 
'em  no  place;  but  I  bet  if  they  do  got  'em  any  place, 
it's  some  place  else  from  here!" 

Florence  looked  thoughtful.  "Who  was  it  you 
said  is  going  to  call  this  evening  and  see  'em?" 

"Mista  Sammerses." 


GENTLE  JULIA  21 

"She  means  Newland  Sanders,"  Herbert  ex 
plained.  "Aunt  Julia  says  all  her  callers  that 
ever  came  to  this  house  in  their  lives,  Kitty  Silver 
never  got  the  name  right  of  a  single  one  of  'em!" 

"Newland  Sanders  is  the  one  with  the  little  mous 
tache,"  Florence  said.  "Is  that  the  one  you  mean 
by  'Sammerses,'  Kitty  Silver?" 

"Mista  Sarnmerses  who  you'  Aunt  Julia  tole  me" 
Mrs.  Silver  responded  stubbornly.  "He  ain't  got 
no  moustache  whut  you  kin  look  at — dess  some  black 
ish  whut  don'  reach  out  mo'n  halfway  todes  the  bofe 
ends  of  his  mouf." 

"Well,"  said  Florence,  "was  Mr.  Sanders  the  one 
gave  her  these  Persian  cats,  Kitty  Silver?" 

"I  reckon."  Mrs.  Silver  breathed  audibly  again, 
and  her  expression  was  strongly  resentful.  "When 
she  go  fer  a  walk  'long  with  any  them  callers  she 
stop  an'  make  a  big  fuss  over  any  li'l  ole  dog  or  cat 
an'  I  don't  know  whut  all,  an'  after  they  done  buy 
her  all  the  candy  from  all  the  candy  sto's  in  the  livin' 
worF,  an'  all  the  flowers  from  all  the  greenhouses 
they  is,  it's  a  wonder  some  of  'em  ain't  sen'  her  a  mule 
fer  a  present,  'cause  seem  like  to  me  they  done  sen' 
her  mos'  every  kine  of  animal  they  is!  Firs'  come 
Airydale  dog  you'  grampaw  tuck  an'  give  away  to 


22  GENTLE  JULIA 

the  milkman;  Ven  come  two  mo'  pups;  I  don't 
know  whut  they  is,  'cause  they  bofe  had  dess  sense 
enough  to  run  away  after  you'  grampaw  try  learn 
'em  how  much  he  ain't  like  no  pups;  an'  nex'  come 
them  two  canaries  hangin'  in  the  dinin'-room  now, 
an'  nex' — di'n'  I  holler  so's  they  could  a-hear  me 
all  way  down  town?  Di'n  I  walk  in  my  kitchen  one 
mawnin'  right  slam  in  the  face  of  ole  warty  allagatuh 
three  foot  long  a-lookin'  at  me  over  the  aidge  o'  my 
kitchen  sink?" 

"It  was  Mr.  Clairdyce  gave  her  that,"  said  Flor 
ence.  "He'd  been  to  Florida;  but  she  didn't  care 
for  it  very  much,  and  she  didn't  make  any  fuss 
at  all  when  grandpa  got  the  florist  to  take  it.  Grandpa 
hates  animals." 

"He  don'  hate  'em  no  wuss'n  whut  I  do,"  said 
Kitty  Silver.  "An'  he  ain't  got  to  ketch  'em  lookin' 
at  him  outen  of  his  kitchen  sink — an'  he  ain't  fixin* 
to  be  no  cat- wash  woman  neither!" 

"Are  you  fixing  to?"  Florence  asked  quickly. 
"You  don't  need  to  do  it,  Kitty  Silver.  I'd  be  will 
ing  to,  and  so'd  Herbert.  Wouldn't  you,  Herbert?" 

Herbert  deliberated  within  himself,  then  bright 
ened.  "  I'd  just  as  soon,"  he  said.  "  I'd  kind  of  like 
to  see  how  a  cat  acts  when  it's  getting  bathed." 


GENTLE  JULIA  23 

"I  think  it  would  be  spesh'ly  interesting  to  wash 
Persian  cats,"  Florence  added,  with  increasing  en 
thusiasm.  "I  never  washed  a  cat  in  my  life." 

"Neither  have  I,"  said  Herbert.  "I  always 
thought  they  did  it  themselves." 

Kitty  Silver  sniffed.  "Ain't  I  says  so  to  you* 
Aunt  Julia?  She  done  tole  me,  'No/  she  say.  She 
say,  she  say  Berjum  cats  ain't  wash  theyself;  they 
got  to  take  an'  git  somebody  else  to  wash  'em!" 

"If  we're  goin'  to  bathe  'em,"  said  Florence,  "we 
ought  to  know  their  names,  so's  we  can  tell  'em  to 
hold  still  and  everything.  You  can't  do  much  with 
an  animal  unless  you  know  their  name.  Did  Aunt 
Julia  tell  you  these  cats'  names,  Kitty  Silver?" 

"She  say  they  name  Feef  an'  Meemuh.  Yes'm! 
Feef  an'  Meemuh!  Whut  kine  o'  name  is  Feef  an' 
Meemuh  fer  cat  name!" 

"  Oh,  those  are  lovely  names ! "  Florence  assured  her, 
and,  turning  to  Herbert,  explained:  "She  means 
Fifi  and  Mimi." 

"Feef  an'  Meemuh,"  said  Kitty  Silver.  "Them 
name  don'  suit  me,  an'  them  long-hair  cats  don'  suit 
me  neither."  Here  she  lifted  the  cover  of  the  basket 
a  little,  and  gazed  nervously  within.  "Look  at 
there ! "  she  said.  "  Look  at  the  way  they  lookin'  at  me ! 


24  GENTLE  JULIA 

Don't  you  look  at  me  thataway,  you  Fee!  an*  Mee- 
muh!"  She  clapped  the  lid  down  and  fastened  it. 
"Fixin*  to  jump  out  an'  grab  me,  was  you?" 

"I  guess,  maybe,"  said  Florence,  "maybe  I  better 
go  ask  Aunt  Julia  if  I  and  Herbert  can't  wash  'em. 
I  guess  I  better  go  ask  her  anyhow."  And  she 
ran  up  the  steps  and  skipped  into  the  house 
by  way  of  the  kitchen.  A  moment  later  she  ap 
peared  in  the  open  doorway  of  a  room  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

IT  WAS  a  pretty  room,  lightly  scented  with  the 
pink  geraniums  and  blue  lobelia  and  coral 
fuchsias  that  poised,  urgent  with  colour,  in  the 
window-boxes  at  the  open  windows.  Sunshine 
paused  delicately  just  inside,  where  forms  of  pale- 
blue  birds  and  lavender  flowers  curled  up  and 
down  the  cretonne  curtains;  and  a  tempered,  re 
spectful  light  fell  upon  a  cushioned  chaise  longue; 
for  there  fluffily  reclined,  in  garments  of  tender  fabric 
and  gentle  colours,  the  prettiest  twenty-year-old 
girl  in  that  creditably  supplied  town. 

It  must  be  said  that  no  stranger  would  have  taken 
Florence  at  first  glance  to  be  her  niece,  though  every 
body  admitted  that  Florence's  hair  was  pretty. 
("I'll  say  that  for  her,"  was  the  family  way  of  putting 
it.)  Florence  did  not  care  for  her  hair  herself; 
it  was  dark  and  thick  and  long,  like  her  Aunt  Julia's; 
but  Florence — even  in  the  realistic  presence  of  a 
mirror — preferred  to  think  of  herself  as  an  ashen 
blonde,  and  also  as  about  a  foot  taller  than  she  was. 

25 


26  GENTLE  JULIA 

Persistence  kept  this  picture  habitually  in  her  mind, 
which,  of  course,  helps  to  explain  her  feeling 
that  she  was  justified  in  wearing  that  manner  of  su 
perciliousness  deplored  by  her  mother.  More  middle- 
aged  gentlemen  than  are  suspected  believe  that 
they  look  like  the  waspen  youths  in  the  magazine  ad 
vertisements  of  clothes;  and  this  impression  of  theirs 
accounts  (as  with  Florence)  for  much  that  is  seem 
ingly  inexplicable  in  their  behaviour. 

Florence's  Aunt  Julia  was  reading  an  exquisitely 
made  little  book,  which  bore  her  initials  stamped  in 
gold  upon  the  cover;  and  it  had  evidently  reached 
her  by  a  recent  delivery  of  the  mail,  for  wrappings 
bearing  cancelled  stamps  lay  upon  the  floor  beside 
the  chaise  longuc.  It  was  a  special  sort  of  book, 
since  its  interior  was  not  printed,  but  all  laboriously 
written  with  pen  and  ink — poems,  in  truth,  contain 
ing  more  references  to  a  lacly  named  Julia  than  have 
appeared  in  any  other  poems  since  Herrick's.  So 
warmly  interested  in  tlie  reading  as  to  be  rather 
pink,  though  not  dvrays  wilh  entire  approval,  this 
Julia  nevertheless,  at  the  sound  of  footsteps,  closed 
the  book  and  placed  it  beneath  one  of  the  cushions 
assisting  the  excise  longue  to  make  her  position  a 
comfortable  one.  Her  greeting  was  not  enthusiastic. 


GENTLE  JULIA  27 

"What  do  you  want,  Florence?" 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  Herbert  and  me — I 
mean:  Was  it  Noble  Dill  gave  you  Fifi  and  Mimi, 
Aunt  Julia?" 

"Noble  Dill?    No." 

"I  wish  it  was,"  Florence  said.  "I'd  like  these 
cats  better  if  they  were  from  Noble  Dill." 

"Why?"  Julia  inquired.  "Why  are  you  so  par 
tial  to  Mr.  Noble  Dill?" 

"I  think  he's  so  much  the  most  inter'sting  look 
ing  of  all  that  come  to  see  you.  Are  you  sure  it 
wasn't  Noble  Dill  gave  you  these  cats,  Aunt  Julia?" 

A  look  of  weariness  became  plainly  visible  upon 
Miss  Julia  Atwater's  charming  face.  "I  do  wish 
you'd  hurry  and  grow  up,  Florence,"  she  said. 

"I  do,  too!    What  for,  Aunt  Julia?" 

"So  there'd  be  somebody  else  in  the  family  of  an 
eligible  age.  I  really  think  it's  an  outrageous  po 
sition  to  be  in,"  Julia  continued,  with  languid  ve 
hemence — "to  be  the  only  girl  between  thirteen  and 
forty-one  in  a  large  connection  of  near  relatives,  in 
cluding  children,  who  all  seem  to  think  they  haven't 
anything  to  think  of  but  Who  comes  to  see  her,  and 
Who  came  to  see  her  yesterday,  and  Who  was  here 
the  day  before,  and  Who's  coming  to-morrow,  and 


28  GENTLE  JULIA 

Who's  she  going  to  marry!  You  really  ought  to 
grow  up  and  help  me  out,  because  I'm  getting  tired 
of  it.  No.  It  wasn't  Noble  Dill  but  Mr.  Newland 
Sanders  that  sent  me  Fifi  and  Mimi — and  I  want  you 
to  keep  away  from  'em." 

"Why?"  asked  Florence. 

"Because  they're  very  rare  cats,  and  you  aren't  or 
dinarily  a  very  careful  sort  of  person,  Florence,  if  you 
don't  mind  my  saying  so.  Besides,  if  I  let  you  go 
near  them,  the  next  thing  Herbert  would  be  over  here 
mussing  around,  and  he  can't  go  near  anything  with 
out  ruining  it !  It's  just  in  him ;  he  can't  help  it." 

Florence  looked  thoughtful  for  a  brief  moment; 
then  she  asked:  "Did  Newland  Sanders  send  'em 
with  the  names  already  to  them?" 

"No,"  said  Julia,  emphasizing  the  patience  of 
her  tone  somewhat.  "I  named  them  after  they 
got  here.  Mr.  Sanders  hasn't  seen  them  yet.  He 
had  them  shipped  to  me.  He's  coming  this  eve 
ning.  Anything  more  to-day,  Florence?" 

"Well,  I  was  thinking,"  said  Florence.  "What 
do  you  think  grandpa'll  think  about  these  cats?" 

"I  don't  believe  there'll  be  any  more  outrages," 
Julia  returned,  and  her  dark  eyes  showed  a  mo 
ment's  animation.  "I  told  him  at  breakfast  that 


GENTLE  JULIA  29 

tlie  Reign  of  Terror  was  ended,  and  he  and  every 
body  else  had  to  keep  away  from  Fifi  and  Mimi. 
Is  that  about  all,  Florence?" 

"You  let  Kitty  Silver  go  near  'em,  though.  She 
says  she's  fixing  to  wash  'em." 

Julia  smiled  faintly.  "I  thought  she  would!  I 
had  to  go  so  far  as  to  tell  her  that  as  long  as  I'm 
housekeeper  in  my  father's  house  she'd  do  what  I 
say  or  find  some  other  place.  She  behaved  out 
rageously  and  pretended  to  believe  the  natural 
colour  of  Fifi  and  Mimi  is  gray ! " 

"I  expect,"  said  Florence,  after  pondering  seri 
ously  for  a  little  while — "I  expect  it  would  take  quite 
some  time  to  dry  them." 

"  No  doubt.  But  I'd  rather  you  didn't  assist.  I'd 
rather  you  weren't  even  around  looking  on, Florence." 

A  shade  fell  upon  her  niece's  face  at  this.  "Why, 
Aunt  Julia,  I  couldn't  do  any  harm  to  Fifi  and  Mimi 
just  lookin9  at  'em,  could  I?" 

Julia  laughed.  "That's  the  trouble;  you  never  do 
6  just  look'  at  anything  you're  interested  in,  and,  if  you 
don't  mind  my  saying  so,  you've  got  rather  a  record, 
dear !  Now,  don't  you  care :  you  can  find  lots  of  other 
pleasant  things  to  do  at  home — or  over  at  Herbert's, 
or  Aunt  Fanny's.  You  run  along  now  and " 


30  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Well "  Florence  said,  moving  as  if  to  de 
part. 

"Youi  might  as  well  go  out  by  the  front  door, 
child,"  Julia  suggested,  with  a  little  watchful  urgency. 
"You  come  over  some  day  when  Fifi  and  Mimi  have 
got  used  to  the  place,  and  you  can  look  at  them  all 
you  want  to." 

"Well,  I  just " 

But  as  Florence  seemed  disposed  still  to  linger, 
her  aunt's  manner  became  more  severe,  and  she 
half  rose  from  her  reclining  position. 

"No,  I  really  mean  it!  Fifi  and  Mimi  are  royal- 
bred  Persian  cats  with  a  wonderful  pedigree,  and  I 
don't  know  how  much  trouble  and  expense  it  cost 
Mr.  Sanders  to  get  them  for  me.  They're  entirely 
different  from  ordinary  cats;  they're  very  fine  and 
queer,  and  if  anything  happens  to  them,  after  all 
the  trouble  papa's  made  over  other  presents  I've  had, 
I'll  go  straight  to  a  sanitarium!  No,  Florence,  you 
keep  away  from  the  kitchen  to-day,  and  I'd  like 
to  hear  the  front  door  as  you  go  out." 

"Well,"  said  Florence;  "I  do  wish  if  these  cats  are 
as  fine  as  all  that,  it  was  Noble  Dill  that  gave  'em 
to  you.  I'd  like  these  cats  lots  better  if  he  gave  'em 
to  you,  wouldn't  you?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  31 

"No,  I  wouldn't." 

"Well "  Florence  said  again,  and  departed. 

Twenty  is  an  unsuspicious  age,  except  .when  it 
fears  that  its  dignity  or  grace  may  be  threatened 
from  without;  and  it  might  have  been  a  "bad  sign" 
in  revelation  of  Julia  Atwater's  character  if  she  had 
failed  to  accept  the  muffled  metallic  clash  of  the 
front  door's  closing  as  a  token  that  her  niece  had 
taken  a  complete  departure  for  home.  A  supple 
mental  confirmation  came  a  moment  later,  fainter 
but  no  less  conclusive:  the  distant  slamming  of  the 
front  gate;  and  it  made  a  clear  picture  of  an  obedi- 
dient  Florence  on  her  homeward  way.  Peace  came 
upon  Julia:  she  read  in  her  book,  while  at  times  she 
dropped  a  languid,  graceful  arm,  and,  with  the  pretty 
hand  at  the  slimmer  end  of  it,  groped  in  a  dark 
shelter  beneath  her  couch  to  make  a  selection, 
merely  by  her  well-experienced  sense  of  touch,  from  a 
frilled  white  box  that  lay  in  concealment  there. 
Then,  bringing  forth  a  crystalline  violet  become 
scented  sugar,  or  a  bit  of  fruit  translucent  in  hard 
ened  sirup,  she  would  delicately  set  it  on  the  way 
to  that  attractive  dissolution  hoped  for  it  by  the 
wistful  donor — and  all  without  removing  her  shad 
owy  eyes  from  the  little  volume  and  its  patient  strug- 


32  GENTLE  JULIA 

gle  for  dignified  rhymes  with  "Julia."  Florence 
was  no  longer  in  her  beautiful  relative's  thoughts. 

Florence  was  idly  in  the  thoughts,  however,  of 
Mrs.  Balche,  the  next-door  neighbour  to  the  south. 
Happening  to  glance  from  a  bay-window,  she  negli 
gently  marked  how  the  child  walked  to  the  front 
gate,  opened  it,  paused  for  a  moment's  meditation, 
then  hurled  the  gate  to  a  vigorous  closure,  herself 
remaining  within  its  protection.  "Odd!"  Mrs. 
Balche  murmured. 

Having  thus  eloquently  closed  the  gate,  Florence 
slowly  turned  and  moved  toward  the  rear  of  the 
house,  quickening  her  steps  as  she  went,  until  at 
a  run  she  disappeared  from  the  scope  of  Mrs.  Balche's 
gaze,  cut  off  by  the  intervening  foliage  of  Mr.  At- 
water's  small  orchard.  Mrs.  Balche  felt  no  great 
interest;  nevertheless,  she  paused  at  the  sound  of  a 
boy's  voice,  half  husky,  half  shrill,  in  an  early  stage 
of  change.  "What  she  say,  Flor'nce?  D'she  say  we 
could?"  But  there  came  a  warning  "Hush  up!"  from 
Florence,  and  then,  in  a  lowered  tone,  the  boy's  voice 
said:  "Look  here;  these  are  mighty  funny-actin' 
cats.  I  think  they're  kind  of  crazy  or  some-p'n. 
Kitty  Silver's  fixed  a  washtub  full  o'  suds  for  us." 

Mrs.  Balche  was  reminded  of  her  own  cat,  and 


GENTLE  JULIA  33 

went  to  give  it  a  little  cream.  Mrs.  Balche  was  a 
retired  widow,  without  children,  and  too  timid  to 
like  dogs;  but  after  a  suitable  interval,  following  the 
loss  of  her  husband,  she  accepted  from  a  friend  the 
gift  of  a  white  kitten,  and  named  it  Violet.  It  may 
be  said  that  Mrs.  Balche,  having  few  interests  in 
life,  and  being  of  a  sequestering  nature,  lived  for 
Violet,  and  that  so  much  devotion  was  not  good  for 
the  latter's  health.  In  his  youth,  after  having 
shown  sufficient  spirit  to  lose  an  eye  during  a  sport 
ing  absence  of  three  nights  and  days,  Violet  was  not 
again  permitted  enough  freedom  of  action  to  repeat 
this  disloyalty;  though  now,  in  his  advanced  middle- 
age,  he  had  been  fed  to  such  a  state  that  he  seldom 
cared  to  move,  other  than  by  a  slow,  sneering  wave- 
ment  of  the  tail  when  friendly  words  were  addressed 
to  him;  and  consequently,  as  he  seemed  beyond 
all  capacity  or  desire  to  run  away,  or  to  run  at  all> 
Mrs.  Balche  allowed  him  complete  liberty  of  action. 
She  found  him  asleep  upon  her  "back  porch,"  and 
placed  beside  him  a  saucer  of  cream,  the  second 
since  his  luncheon.  Then  she  watched  him  affec 
tionately  as  he  opened  his  eye,  turned  toward  the 
saucer  his  noble  Henry-the-Eighth  head  with  its 
great  furred  jowls,  and  began  the  process  of  rising 


34  GENTLE  JULIA 

for  more  food,  which  was  all  that  ever  seemed  even 
feebly  to  rouse  his  mind.  When  he  had  risen,  there 
was  little  space  between  him  anywhere  and  the  floor. 

Violet  took  his  cream  without  enthusiasm,  pausing 
at  times  and  turning  his  head  away.  In  fact,  he 
persisted  only  out  of  an  incorrigible  sensuality,  and 
finally  withdrew  a  pace  or  two,  leaving  creamy  traces 
still  upon  the  saucer.  With  a  multitude  of  fond 
words  his  kind  mistress  drew  his  attention  to  these, 
whereupon,  making  a  visible  effort,  he  returned  and 
disposed  of  them. 

"Dat's  de  'itty  darlin',"  she  said,  stooping  to 
stroke  him.  "Eat  um  all  up  nice  clean.  Dood  for 
ole  sweet  sin!"  She  continued  to  stroke  him,  and 
Violet  half  closed  his  eye,  but  not  with  love  or  se 
renity,  for  he  simultaneously  gestured  with  his  tail, 
meaning  to  say:  "Gh,  do  take  your  hands  off  o' 
me!"  Then  he  opened  the  eye  and  paid  a  little 
attention  to  sounds  from  the  neighbouring  yard.  A 
high  fence,  shrubberies,  and  foliage  concealed  that 
yard  from  the  view  cf  Violet,  but  tlie  sounds  were 
eloquent  to  him,  s^nce  tliey  \vcre  those  made  by 
members  of  his  own  general  species  when  threatening 
atrocities.  The  accent  incy  have  been  foreign,  but 
Violet  caught  perfectly  the  sense  of  what  was  being 


GENTLE  JULIA  35 

said,  and  instinctively  he  muttered  reciprocal  curses 
within  himself. 

"What  a  matta,  honey?"  his  companion  inquired 
sympathetically.  "Ess,  bad  people  Tighten  poor 
Violet!" 

From  beyond  the  fence  came  the  murmurings  of  a 
boy  and  a  girl  in  hushed  but  urgent  conversation;  and 
with  these  sounds  there  mingled  watery  agitations, 
splashings  and  the  like,  as  well  as  those  low  vocal- 
izings  that  Violet  had  recognized;  but  suddenly  there 
were  muffled  explosions,  like  fireworks  choked  in  feath 
er  beds;  and  the  human  voices  grew  uncontrollably 
somewhat  louder,  so  that  their  import  was  distinguish 
able.  "Ow  /"  "Hush  up,  can't  you?  You  want  to 
bring  the  whole  town  to — ow  !  "  "  Hush  up  yourself ! " 

"Oh,  goodness!"  "Look  out!  Don't  let  her " 

"Well,  look  what  she's  doin'  to  me,  can't  you?" 
"For  Heavenses'  sakes,  catch  holt  and Ow  /" 

Then  came  a  husky  voice,  inevitably  that  of  a 
horrified  coloured  person  hastening  from  a  distance: 
"Oh,  my  soul!"  There  was  a  scurrying,  and  the 
girl  was  heard  in  furious  yet  hoarsely  guarded  vehe 
mence:  "Bring  the  clo'es  prop!  Bring  the  clo'es 
prop !  We  can  poke  that  one  down  from  the  garage, 
anyway.  Oh,  my  goodness,  look  at  9er  go!" 


36  GENTLE  JULIA 

Mrs.  Balche  shook  her  head.  "Naughty  chil 
dren!"  she  said,  as  she  picked  up  the  saucer  and  went 
to  the  kitchen  door,  which  she  held  open  for  Violet 
to  enter.  "Want  to  come  with  mamma?" 

But  Violet  had  lost  even  the  faint  interest  in  life 
he  had  shown  a  few  moments  earlier.  He  settled 
himself  to  another  stupor  in  the  sun. 

"Well,  well,"  Mrs.  Balche  said  indulgently. 
"Afterwhile  shall  have  some  more  nice  keem." 

Sunset  was  beginning  to  be  hinted,  two  hours  later, 
when,  in  another  quarter  of  the  town,  a  little  girl  of 
seven  or  eight,  at  play  on  the  domestic  side  of  an 
alley  gate,  became  aware  of  an  older  girl  regarding 
her  fixedly  over  the  top  of  the  gate.  The  little  girl 
felt  embarrassed  and  paused  in  her  gayeties,  enfolding 
in  her  arms  her  pet  and  playmate.  "Howdy*  da," 
said  the  stranger  in  a  serious  tone.  "What'll  you 
take  for  that  cat?" 

The  little  girl  made^no  reply,  and  the  stranger, 
opening  the  gate,  cameTinto  the  yard.  She  looked 
weary,  rather  bedraggled,  yet  hurried:  her  air  was 
predominantly  one  of  anxiety.  "I'll  give  you  a 
quarter  for  that  cat,"  she  said.  "I  want  an  all-white 
cat,  but  this  one's  only  got  that  one  gray  spot  over 


GENTLE  JULIA  37 

its  eye,  and  I  don't  believe  there's  an  all-white  cat 
left  in  town,  leastways  that  anybody's  willing  to 
part  with.  I'll  give  you  twenty-five  cents  for  it.  I 
haven't  got  it  with  me,  but  I'll  promise  to  give  it  to 
you  day  after  to-morrow." 

The  little  girl  still  made  no  reply,  but  continued  to 
stare,  her  eyes  widening,  and  the  caller  spoke  with 
desperation. 

"See  here,"  she  said,  "I  got  to  have  a  whitish  cat! 
That'n  isn't  worth  more'n  a  quarter,  but  I'll  give 
you  thirty-five  cents  for  her,  money  down,  day  after 
to-morrow." 

At  this,  the  frightened  child  set  the  cat  upon  the 
ground  and  fled  into  the  house.  Florence  Atwater 
was  left  alone;  that  is  to  say,  she  was  the  only  human 
being  in  the  yard,  or  in  sight.  Nevertheless,  a 
human  voice  spoke,  not  far  behind  her.  It  came 
through  a  knot-hole  in  the  fence,  and  it  was  a  voice 
almost  of  passion. 

"You  grab  it!" 

Florence  stood  in  silence,  motionless;  there  was  a 
solemnity  about  her.  The  voice  exhorted.  "My 
goodness!  "it  said.  "She  didn't  say  she  wouldn't  sell 
it,  did  she?  You  can  bring  her  the  money  like  you 
said  you  would,  can't  you?  I  got  mine,  didn't  I,  al- 


38  GENTLE  JULIA 

most  without  any  trouble  at  all !   My  Heavens !   Ain't 
Kitty  Silver  pretty  near  crazy?    Just  think  of  the 
position  we've  put  her  into !    I  tell  you,  you  got  to ! " 
But   now   Florence   moved.     She   moved   slowly 
at  first:  then  with  more  decision  and  rapidity. 

That  evening's  dusk  had  deepened  into  blue  night 
when  the  two  cousins,  each  with  a  scant,  uneasy 
dinner  eaten,  met  by  appointment  in  the  alley  be 
hind  their  mutual  grandfather's  place  of  residence, 
and,  having  climbed  the  back  fence,  approached 
the  kitchen.  Suddenly  Florence  lifted  her  right 
hand,  and  took  between  thumb  and  forefinger  a 
lock  of  hair  upon  the  back  of  Herbert's  head. 

"Well,  for  Heavenses'  sakes!"  he  burst  out,  jus 
tifiably  protesting. 

"Hush!"  Florence  warned  him.  "Kitty  Sil 
ver's  talkin'  to  somebody  in  there.  It  might  be 
Aunt  Julia!  C'm'ere!" 

She  led  him  to  a  position  beneath  an  open  window 
of  the  kitchen.  Here  they  sat  upon  the  ground, 
with  their  backs  against  the  stone  foundation  of 
the  house,  and  listened  to  voices  and  the  clink  of 
dishes  being  washed. 

"She's  got  another  ole  coloured  darky  woman  in 


GENTLE  JULIA  39 

there  with  her,"  said  Florence.  "It's  a  woman 
belongs  to  her  church  and  comes  to  see  her  'most 
every  evening.  Listen;  she's  telling  her  about  it. 
I  bet  we  could  get  the  real  truth  of  it  maybe  better 
this  way  than  if  we  went  in  and  asked  her  right  out. 
Anyway,  it  isn't  eavesdropping  if  you  listen  when 
people  are  talkin'  about  you,  yourself.  It's  only  wrong 
when  it  isn't  any  of  your  own  bus 

"For  Heavenses'  sakes  hush  up!"  her  cousin 
remonstrated .  ' '  Listen ! ' ' 

"No'm,  Miss  Julia,  ma'am,'  I  say" — thus  came 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Silver — "  'no'm,  Miss  Julia,  ma'am. 
Them  the  same  two  cats  you  han'  me,  Miss  Julia, 
ma'am,'  I  say.  'Leas' wise,'  I  say,  'them  the  two 
same  cats  whut  was  in  nat  closed-up  brown  basket 
when  I  open  it  up  an'  take  an'  fix  to  wash  'em.  Some 
body  might  'a'  took  an'  change  'em  'fo'  they  got  to  me,9 
I  say,  'Miss  Julia,  ma'am,  but  all  the  change  happen 
to  'em  sence  they  been  in  charge  of  me,  that's  the  gray 
whut  come  off  'em  whiles  I  washin'  'em  an'  dryin' 
'em  in  corn  meal  and  flannel.  I  dunno  how*  much 
washin9  'em  change  'em,  Miss  Julia,  ma'am,'  I  say, 
'  'cause  how  much  they  change  or  ain't  change, 
that's  fer  you  to  say  and  me  not  to  jedge/  I  say." 

"Lan'   o'   misery!"   cried   the   visitor,   chuckling 


40  GENTLE  JULIA 

delightedly.     "I  wonder  how  you  done  kep'  you' 
face,  Miss  Kitty.     What  Miss  Julia  say?" 

A  loud,  irresponsible  outburst  of  mirth  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Silver  followed.  When  she  could 
again  control  herself,  she  replied  more  definitely. 
"Miss  Julia  say,  she  say  she  ain't  never  hear  no  sech 
outragelous  sto'y  in  her  life!  She  tuck  on!  Halle 
lujah!  An'  all  time,  Miz  Johnson,  I  give  you  my 
word,  I  stannin'  there  holdin'  nat  basket,  carryin' 
on  up  hill  an'  down  dale  how  them  the  same  two 
Berjum  cats  Mista  Sammerses  sen'  her:  an'  trouble 
enough  dess  ten'in'  to  that  basket,  lemme  say  to 
you,  Miz  Johnson,  as  anybody  kin  tell  you  whutever 
tried  to  take  care  o'  two  cats  whut  ain't  yoosta  each 
other  in  the  same  basket.  An'  every  blessed  minute 
I  stannin'  there,  can't  I  hear  that  ole  Miz  Blatch  nex' 
do',  out  in  her  back  yod  an'  her  front  yod,  an'  plum 
out  in  the  street,  hollerin': 'Kitty?  Kitty?  Kitty?' 
'Yes!'  Miss  Julia  say,  she  say,  'Fine  sto'y!'  she 
say.  'Them  two  cats  you  claim  my  Berjum  cats, 
they  got  short  hair,  an'  they  ain't  the  same  age  an' 
they  ain't  even  nowheres  near  the  same  size,9  she  say. 
'One  of  'em's  as  fat  as  bofe  them  Berjum  cats,'  she 
say:  'an  it's  on'y  got  one  eye,'  she  say.  'Well, 
Miss  Julia,  ma'am,'  I  say — 'one  thing;  they  come 


GENTLE  JULIA  41 

out  white,  all  'cept  dess  around  that  there  skinnier 
one's  eye,'  I  say:  'dess  the  same  you  tell  me  they 
goin'  to,'  I  say.  *You  right  about  that  much, 
ma'am!'  I  say." 

"Oh,  me!"  Mrs.  Johnson  moaned,  worn  with  ap 
plausive  laughter.  "What  she  respon'  then?" 

"I  set  that  basket  down,"  said  Kitty  Silver,  "an' 
I  start  fer  the  do',  whiles  she  unfasten  the  lid  fer  to 
take  one  mo'  look  at  'em,  I  reckon :  but  open  window 
mighty  close  by,  an'  nat  skinny  white  cat  make  one 
jump,  an'  after  li'l  while  I  lookin'  out  thishere  win 
dow  an'  see  that  ole  fat  Miz  Blatch's  torn,  waddlin' 
crost  the  yod  todes  home." 

"What  she  doin'  now?"  Mrs.  Johnson  inquired. 

"Who?  Miss  Julia?  She  settin'  out  on  the  front 
po'che  talkin'  to  Mista  Sammerses." 

"My  name!  How  she  goin'  fix  it  with  him,  after 
all  thishere  dishcumaraddle?" 

"Who?  Miss  Julia?  Leave  her  alone,  honey! 
She  take  an'  begin  talk  so  fas'  an'  talk  so  sweet,  no 
young  man  ain't  goin'  to  ricklect  he  ever  give  her 
no  cats,  not  till  he's  gone  an'  halfway  home!  But  I 
ain't  tole  you  the  en'  of  it,  Miz  Johnson,  an'  the  en' 
of  it's  the  bes'  pajt  whut  happen." 

"What's  that,  Miss  Kitty?" 


42  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Look!"  said  Mrs.  Silver.  "Mista  Atwater 
gone  in  yonder,  after  I  come  out,  an'  ast  whut  all 
them  goin's-on  about.  Well  suh,  an'  didn'  he  come 
walkin'  out  in  my  kitchen  an'  slip  me  two  bright 
spang  new  silbuh  dolluhs  right  in  my  han'?" 

"My  name!" 

"Yessuh!"  said  Mrs.  Silver  triumphantly.  And 
in  the  darkness  outside  the  window  Florence  drew  a 
deep  breath.  "I'd  of  felt  just  awful  about  this," 
she  said,  "if  Noble  Dill  had  given  Aunt  Julia  those 
Persian  cats." 

"Why?"  Herbert  inquired,  puzzled  by  her  way  of 
looking  at  things.  "I  don't  see  why  it  would 
make  it  any  worse  who  gave  'em  to  her." 

"Well,  it  would,"  Florence  said.  ^  "But  anyway, 
I  think  we  did  rather  wrong.  Did  you  notice  what 
Kitty  Silver  said  about  what  grandpa  did?" 

"Well?" 

"I  think  we  ought  to  tell  him  our  share  of  it," 
Florence  returned  thoughtfully.  "I  don't  want  to 
go  to  bed  to-night  with  all  this  on  my  mind,  and 
I'm  going  to  find  grandpa  right  now  and  confess 
every  bit  of  it  to  him." 

Herbert  hopefully  decided  to  go  with  her. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

JULIA,  like  Herbert,  had  been  a  little  puzzled  by 
Florence's  expression  of  a  partiality  for  the 
young  man,  Noble  Dill;  it  was  not  customary 
for  anybody  to  confess  a  weakness  for  him.      How 
ever,  the  aunt  dismissed  the  subject  from  her  mind, 
as  other  matters  pressed  sharply  upon  her  atten 
tion;    she    had    more    worries    than    most    people 
guessed. 

The  responsibilities  of  a  lady  who  is  almost  offi 
cially  the  prettiest  person  in  a  town  persistently 
claiming  sixty-five  thousand  inhabitants  are  often 
heavier  than  the  world  suspects,  and  there  were 
moments  when  Julia  found  the  position  so  trying 
that  she  would  have  preferred  to  resign.  She  was 
a  warm-hearted,  appreciative  girl,  naturally  unable 
to  close  her  eyes  to  sterling  merit  wherever  it  ap 
peared:  and  it  was  not  without  warrant  that  she 
complained  of  her  relatives.  The  whole  family,  in 
cluding  the  children,  she  said,  regaled  themselves 

43 


44  GENTLE  JULIA 

with  her  private  affairs  as  a  substitute  for  theatre- 
going.  But  one  day,  a  week  after  the  irretrievable 
disappearance  of  Fifi  and  Mimi,  she  went  so  far  as 
to  admit  a  note  of  unconscious  confession  into  her 
protest  that  she  was  getting  pretty  tired  of  being 
mistaken  for  a  three-ring  circus!  Such  was  her 
despairing  expression,  and  the  confession  lies  in  her 
use  of  the  word  "three." 

The  misleading  moderation  of  "three"  was  pointed 
out  to  her  by  her  niece,  whose  mind  at  once 
violently  seized  upon  the  word  and  divested  it 
of  context — a  process  both  feminine  and  instinc 
tive,  for  this  child  was  already  beginning  to  be 
feminine.  "Three!"  she  said.  "Why,  Aunt  Julia, 
you  must  be  crazy!  There's  Newland  Sanders  and 
Noble  Dill  and  that  old  widower,  Ridgley,  that 
grandpa  hates  so,  and  Mister  Clairdyce  and  George 
Plum  and  the  two  new  ones  from  out  of  town  that 
Aunt  Fanny  Patterson  said  you  had  at  church  Sun 
day  morning — Herbert  said  he  didn't  like  one  of 
'em's  looks  much,  Aunt  Julia.  And  there's  Parker 
Kent  Usher  and  that  funny-lookin'  one  with  the 
little  piece  of  whiskers  under  his  underlip  that  Noble 
Dill  got  so  mad  at  when  they  were  calling,  and  Uncle 
Joe  laughed  about,  and  I  don't  know  who  all!  Any- 


GENTLE  JULIA  45 

how,  there's  an  awful  lot  more  than  three,  Aunt 
Julia." 

Julia  looked  down  with  little  favour  upon  the 
talkative  caller.  Florence  was  seated  upon  the 
shady  steps  of  the  veranda,  and  Julia,  dressed  for 
a  walk,  occupied  a  wicker  chair  above  her.  "Julia, 
dressed  for  a  walk" — how  scant  the  words!  It  was 
a  summer  walk  that  Julia  had  dressed  for:  and  she 
was  all  too  dashingly  a  picture  of  coolness  on  a  hot 
day:  a  brunette  in  murmurous  white,  though  her 
little  hat  was  a  film  of  blackest  blue,  and  thus  also 
in  belt  and  parasol  she  had  almost  matched  the  colour 
of  her  eyes.  Probably  no  human-made  fabric 
could  have  come  nearer  to  matching  them,  though 
she  had  once  met  a  great  traveller — at  least  he  went 
far  enough  in  his  search  for  comparisons — who  told 
her  that  the  Czarina  of  Russia  had  owned  a  deep 
sapphire  of  precisely  the  colour,  but  the  Czarina's 
was  the  only  sapphire  yet  discovered  that  had  it. 
One  of  Newland  Sanders's  longest  Poems-to-Julia 
was  entitled  "Black  Sapphires." 

Julia's  harmonies  in  black  sapphire  were  un 
called  for.  If  she  really  had  been  as  kind  as  she  was 
too  often  capable  of  looking,  she  would  have  fastened 
patches  over  both  eyes — one  patch  would  have  been 


46  GENTLE  JULIA 

useless — and  she  would  have  worn  flat  shoes  and 
patronized  a  dressmaker  with  genius  enough  to 
misrepresent  her.  But  Julia  was  not  great  enough 
for  such  generosities:  she  should  have  been  locked 
up  till  she  passed  sixty;  her  sufferings  deserve  no 
pity. 

And  yet  an  attack  of  the  mumps  during  the  winter 
had  brought  Julia  more  sympathy  than  the  epi 
demic  of  typhoid  fever  in  the  Old  Ladies'  Infirmary 
brought  all  of  the  nine  old  ladies  who  were  under 
treatment  there.  Julia  was  confined  to  her  room 
for  almost  a  month,  during  which  a  florist's  wagon 
seemed  permanent  before  the  house:  and  a  confec 
tioner's  frequently  stood  beside  the  florist's.  Young 
Florence,  an  immune  who  had  known  the  mumps 
in  infancy,  became  an  almost  constant  attendant 
upon  the  patient,  with  the  result  that  the  niece 
contracted  an  illness  briefer  than  the  aunt's,  but 
more  than  equalling  it  in  poignancy,  caused  by  the 
poor  child's  economic  struggle  against  waste.  Flor 
ence's  convalescence  took  place  in  her  own  home 
without  any  inquiries  whatever  from  the  outer 
world,  but  Julia's  was  spent  in  great  part  at  the  tele 
phone.  Even  a  poem  was  repeated  to  her  by  the 
instrument: 


GENTLE  JULIA  47 

How  the  world  blooms  anew 

To  think  that  you 

Can  speak  again, 

Can  hear 

The  words  of  men 

And  the  dear 

Own  voice  of  you. 

This  was  Newland  Sanders.  He  was  just  out  of 
college,  a  reviewer,  a  poet,  and  once,  momentarily, 
an  atheist.  It  was  Newland  who  was  present  and 
said  such  a  remarkable  thing  when  Julia  had  the  ac 
cident  to  her  thumb-nail  in  closing  the  double  doors 
between  the  living-room  and  the  library,  where  her 
peculiar  old  father  sat  reading.  "To  see  you  suffer," 
Newland  said  passionately  as  she  nursed  her  injury: 
— "to  see  you  in  pain,  that  is  the  one  thing  in  the  uni 
verse  which  I  feel  beyond  all  my  capacities.  Do  you 
know,  when  you  are  made  to  suffer  pain,  then  I  feel 
that  there  is  no  God!" 

This  strong  declaration  struck  Herbert  as  one 
of  the  most  impressive  things  he  had  ever  heard, 
though  he  could  not  account  for  its  being  said  to 
any  aunt  of  his.  Herbert  had  just  dropped  in 
without  the  formality  of  ringing  the  bell,  and  had 
paused  in  the  hall,  outside  the  open  door  of  the  living- 
room.  He  considered  the  matter,  after  Newland 
had  spoken,  and  concluded  to  return  to  his  own  place 


48  GENTLE  JUIIA 

of  residence  without  disturbing  anybody  at  his 
grandfather's.  At  home  he  found  his  mother  and 
father  entertaining  one  of  his  uncles,  one  of  his 
aunts,  two  of  his  great-uncles,  one  of  his  great-aunts, 
and  one  of  his  grown-up  cousins,  at  cards:  and  he 
proved  to  be  warranted  in  believing  that  they  would 
all  like  to  know  what  he  had  heard.  Newland's 
statement  became  quite  celebrated  throughout  the 
family:  and  Julia,  who  had  perceived  almost  a  sacred 
something  in  his  original  fervour,  changed  her  mind 
after  hearing  the  words  musingly  repeated,  over  and 
over,  by  her  fat  old  Uncle  Joe. 

Florence  thought  proper  to  remind  her  of  this  to 
day,  after  Julia's  protest  containing  the  too  moder 
ately  confessional  word  "three." 

"If  you  don't  want  to  be  such  a  circus,"  the  niece 
continued,  reasoning  perfectly,  "I  don't  see  what 
you  always  keep  leadin'  all  of  'em  on  all  the  time 
just  the  same  for." 

"Who've  you  heard  saying  that,  Florence?"  her 
aunt  demanded. 

"Aunt  Fanny  Patterson,"  Florence  replied  ab 
sently.  "F'r  instance,  Aunt  Julia,  I  don't  see  what 
you  want  to  go  walking  with  Newland  Sanders  for, 
when  you  said  yourself  you  wished  he  was  dead,  or 


GENTLE  JULIA  49 

somep'n,  after  there  got  to  be  so  much  talk  in  the 
family  and  everywhere  about  his  sayin'  all  that  about 
the  Bible  when  you  hurt  your  thumb.  All  the 
family " 

Julia  sighed  profoundly.  "I  wish  'all  the  family' 
would  try  to  think  about  themselves  for  just  a  little 
while!  There's  entirely  too  little  self-centredness 
among  my  relatives  to  suit  me ! " 

"Why,  it's  only  because  you're  related  to  me  that 
/  pay  the  very  slightest  attention  to  what  goes  on 
here,"  Florence  protested.  "It's  my  own  grand 
father's  house,  isn't  it?  Well,  if  you  didn't  live 
here,  and  if  you  wasn't  my  own  grandfather's  daugh 
ter,  Aunt  Julia,  I  wouldn't  ever  pay  the  very  slightest 
attention  to  you!  Anyway,  I  don't  much  criticize  all 
these  people  that  keep  calling  on  you — anyway  not 
half  as  much  as  Herbert  does.  Herbert  thinks  he  al 
ways  hass  to  act  so  critical,  now  his  voice  is  changing." 

"At  your  age,"  said  Julia,  "my  mind  was  on  my 
schoolbooks." 

"Why,  Aunt  Julia!"  Florence  exclaimed  in 
frank  surprise.  '^Grandpa  says  just  the  opposite 
from  that.  I've  heard  him  say,  time  and  time  and 
time  again,  you  always  were  this  way,  ever  since 
you  were  four  years  old." 


50  GENTLE  JULIA 

"What  way?"  asked  her  aunt. 

"Like  you  are  now,  Aunt  Julia.  Grandpa  says  by 
the  time  you  were  fourteen  it  got  so  bad  he  had  to 
get  a  new  front  gate,  the  way  they  leaned  on  it. 
He  says  he  hoped  when  you  grew  up  he'd  get  a  little 
peace  in  his  own  house,  but  he  says  it's  worse,  and 
never  for  one  minute  the  livelong  day  can  he " 

"I  know,"  Julia  interrupted.  "He  talks  like  a 
Christian  Martyr  and  behaves  like  Nero.  I  might 
warn  you  to  keep  away  from  him,  by  the  way,  Flor 
ence.  He  says  that  either  you  or  Herbert  was  over 
here  yesterday  and  used  his  spectacles  to  cut  a 
magazine  with,  and  broke  them.  I  wouldn't  be 
around  here  much  if  I  were  you  until  he's  got  over 
it." 

"It  must  have  been  Herbert  broke  'em,"  said 
Florence  promptly. 

"Papa  thinks  it  was  you.  Kitty  Silver  told  him 
it  was." 

"Mean  ole  reptile!"  said  Florence,  alluding  to  Mrs. 
Silver;  then  she  added  serenely,  "Well,  grandpa  don't 
get  home  till  five  o'clock,  and  it's  only  about  a  quarter 
of  two  now.  Aunt  Julia,  what  are  you  waitin' 
around  here  for?" 

"I  told  you;  I'm  going  walking." 


GENTLE  JULIA  51 

"I  mean:  Who  with?" 

Miss  Atwater  permitted  herself  a  light  moan. 
"With  Mr.  Sanders  and  Mr.  Ridgely,  Florence." 

Florence's  eyes  grew  large  and  eager.  "Why, 
Aunt  Julia,  I  thought  those  two  didn't  speak  to  each 
other  any  more!" 

"They  don't,"  Julia  assented  in  a  lifeless  voice. 
"It  just  happened  that  Mr.  Sanders  and  Mr.  Ridgley 
and  Mr.  Dill,  all  three,  asked  me  to  take  a  walk  this 
afternoon  at  two  o'clock." 

"But  Noble  Dill  isn't  going?" 

"No,"  said  Julia.  "I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
remember  that  I'd  already  promised  someone  else 
when  he  asked  me.  That's  what  I  didn't  remember 
when  Mr.  Ridgely  asked  me." 

"I'd  have  gone  with  Noble  Dill,"  Florence  said 
firmly.  "Noble  Dill  is  my  Very  Ideal!  I'd  marry 
him  to-morrow." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  her  aunt  remarked,  "I  heard 
your  mother  telling  somebody  the  other  day  that 
you  had  said  the  same  thing  about  the  King  of 
Spain." 

Florence  laughed.  "Oh,  that  was  only  a  passing 
fancy,"  she  said  lightly.  "Aunt  Julia,  what's 
Newland  Sanders  supposed  to  do?" 


52  GENTLE  JULIA 

"I  think  he  hasn't  entered  any  business  or  pro 
fession  yet." 

"I  bet  he  couldn't,"  her  niece  declared.  "What's 
that  old  Ridgely  supposed  to  be?  Just  a  widower?" 

"Nevermind!" 

"And  that  George  Plum's  supposed  to  do  some 
thing  or  other  around  Uncle  Joe's  ole  bank,  isn't  he?" 
Florence  continued. 

"'Supposed'!"  Julia  protested.  "What  is  all 
this  'supposed  to  be'?  Where  did  you  catch  that 
horrible  habit?  You  know  the  whole  family  worries 
over  your  superciliousness,  Florence;  but  until 
now  I've  always  thought  it  was  just  the  way  your 
face  felt  easiest.  If  it's  going  to  break  out  in 
your  talk,  too,  it's  time  you  began  to  cure  yourself 
of  it." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  hurt  anything!"  Florence  made 
careless  response,  and,  as  she  saw  the  thin  figure  of 
young  Mr.  Sanders  approaching  in  the  distance, 
"Look!"  she  cried,  pointing.  "Why,  he  doesn't 
even  compare  to  Noble  Dill!" 

"Don't  point  at  people!" 

"Well,  he's  nothing  much  to  point  at!"  She  low 
ered  her  finger.  "It's  no  depredation  to  me,  Aunt 
Julia,  to  give  up  pointing  at  Newland  Sanders. 


GENTLE  JULIA  53 

Atch'ly,  I  wouldn't  give  Noble  Dill's  little  finger 
for  a  hunderd  and  fifty  Newland  Sanderses ! " 

Julia  smiled  faintly  as  she  watched  Mr.  Sanders, 
who  seemed  not  yet  to  be  aware  of  her,  because  he 
thought  it  would  be  better  to  reach  the  gate  and 
lift  his  hat  just  there.  "What  has  brought  on  all 
this  tenderness  in  favour  of  Mr.  Dill,  Florence?" 

Her  niece's  eyes,  concentrated  in  thought,  then 
became  dreamy.  "I  like  him  because  he's  so  un 
couth,"  she  said.  "I  think  he's  the  uncouthest  of 
any  person  I  ever  saw." 

"'Uncouth'?" 

"Yes,"  said  Florence.  "Herbert  said  I  was  un 
couth,  and  I  looked  it  up  in  the  ditchanary.  It 
said,  'Rare,  exquisite,  elegant,  unknown,  obs,  un 
familiar,  strange,'  and  a  whole  lot  else.  I  never 
did  know  a  word  that  means  so  much,  I  guess.  What's 
'obs'  mean,  Aunt  Julia?" 

"Hush!"  said  Julia,  rising,  for  Mr.  Sanders  had 
made  a  little  startled  movement  as  he  reached  the 
gate  and  caught  sight  of  her;  and  now,  straw  hat  in 
hand,  he  was  coming  up  the  brick  walk  that  led  to  the 
veranda.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Julia  with  an 
intensity  that  seemed  to  affect  his  breathing;  there 
was  a  hushedness  about  him.  And  Florence,  in 


54  GENTLE  JULIA 

fascination,  watched  Julia's  expression  and  posture 
take  on  those  little  changes  that  always  seemed  de 
manded  of  her  by  the  appoach  of  a  young  or  young 
ish  man,  or  a  nicely  dressed  old  one.  By  almost 
imperceptible  processes  the  commonplace  moment 
became  dramatic  at  once. 

"You!"  said  Newland  in  a  low  voice. 

And  Julia,  with  an  implication  as  flattering  as  the 
gesture  was  graceful,  did  not  wait  till  he  was  within 
reach,  but  suddenly  extended  her  welcoming  hand  at 
arm's  length.  He  sprang  forward  convulsively  and 
grasped  it,  as  if  forever. 

"You  see  my  little  niece?"  Julia  said.  "I  think 
you  know  her." 

"Know  her?"  Mr.  Sanders  repeated;  then  roused 
his  faculties  and  gave  Florence  a  few  fingers  dangling 
coldly  after  their  recent  emotion.  "Florence.  Oh, 
yes,  Florence." 

Florence  had  not  risen,  but  remained  seated  upon 
the  steps,  her  look  and  air  committed  to  that  mood  of 
which  so  much  complaint  had  been  made.  "How 
do  you  do,"  she  said.  "There's  Mr.  Ridgely." 

"Where?"  Newland  asked  loudly. 

"Comin'  in  at  the  gate,"  said  Florence.  "He's 
goin'  walkin'  with  you,  too." 


GENTLE  JULIA  55 

In  this  crisis,  Mr.  Sanders's  feeling  was  obviously 
one  of  startled  anguish.  He  turned  to  Julia. 

"Why,   this   is   terrible!"   he   said.     "You   told 

~,^         " 

me 

"Sh!"  she  warned  him;  and  whispered  hastily, 
all  in  a  breath:  "Couldn9t-be-helped-explain-next-time- 
I-see-you."  Then  she  advanced  a  gracious  step  to 
meet  the  newcomer. 

But  the  superciliousness  of  Florence  visibly  in 
creased  with  this  advent:  Mr.  Ridgely  was  easily 
old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather,  yet  she  seemed 
to  wish  it  evident  that  she  would  not  have 
cared  for  him  even  in  that  capacity.  He  was,  in 
truth,  one  of  those  widowers  who  feel  younger  than 
ever,  and  behave  as  they  feel.  Since  his  loss  he 
kad  shown  the  greatest  willingness  to  forego  what 
ever  advantages  age  and  experience  had  given  him 
over  the  descendants  of  his  old  friends  and  col 
leagues,  and  his  cheerfulness  as  well  as  his  suscepti 
bility  to  all  that  was  charming  liad  begun  to  make 
him  so  famous  in  the  town  tli^t  Gome  of  his  con 
temporaries  seemed  to  knoY7  scarce  another  topic. 
And  Julia  had  a  kinder  hear!;,  as  her  father  bitterly 
complained,  than  most  girls. 

The  widower  came,  holding  out  to  her  a  votive 


56  GENTLE  JULIA 

cluster  of  violets,  a  pink  rose  among  them,  their 
stems  wrapped  in  purple;  and  upon  the  lapel  of  his 
jovial  flannel  coat  were  other  violets  about  a  pink 
rosebud. 

"How  pretty  of  you!"  said  Julia,  taking  the  offer 
ing;  and  as  she  pinned  it  at  her  waist,  she  added 
rather  nervously,  "I  believe  you  know  Mr.  Sanders; 
he  is  going  with  us." 

She  was  warranted  in  believing  the  gentlemen  to  be 
acquainted,  because  no  longer  ago  than  the  previous 
week  they  both  had  stated,  in  her  presence  and  si 
multaneously,  that  any  further  communication  be 
tween  them  would  be  omitted  for  life.  Julia  realized, 
of  course,  that  Mr.  Ridgely  must  find  the  present 
meeting  as  trying  as  Newland  did,  and,  to  help  him 
bear  it,  she  contrived  to  make  him  hear  the  hurried 
whisper :  "  Couldn't-be-helped-explain-some-day.9 9 

Then  with  a  laugh  not  altogether  assured,  she 
took  up  her  parasol.  "Shall  we  be  starting?"  she 
inquired. 

"Here's  Noble  Dill,"  said  Florence,  "I  guess  he's 
goin'  to  try  to  go  walkin'  with  you,  too,  Aunt 
Julia." 

Julia  turned,  for  in  fact  the  gate  at  that  moment 
clicked  behind  the  nervously  advancing  form  of 


GENTLE  JULIA  57 

Noble  Dill.  He  came  with  a  bravado  that  was 
merely  pitiable  and  he  tried  to  snap  his  Orduma 
cigarette  away  with  thumb  and  forefinger  in  a  care 
less  fashion,  only  to  see  it  publicly  disappear  through 
an  open  cellar  window  of  the  house. 

"I  hope  there's  no  excelsior  down  there,"  said 
Newland  Sanders.  "A  good  many  houses  have 
burned  to  the  ground  just  that  way." 

"It  fell  on  the  cement  floor,"  Florence  reported, 
peering  into  the  window.  "It'll  go  out  pretty  soon." 

"Then  I  suppose  we  might  as  well  do  the  same 
thing,"  said  Newland,  addressing  Julia  first  and  Mr. 
Dill  second.  "Miss  Atwater  and  I  are  just  starting 
for  a  walk." 

Mr.  Ridgely  also  addressed  the  new  arrival.  "  Miss 
Atwater  and  I  are  just  starting  for  a  walk." 

"You  see,  Noble,"  said  the  kind-hearted  Julia, 
"I  did  tell  you  I  had  another  engagement." 

"I  came  by  here,"  Mr.  Dill  began  in  a  tone 
commingling  timidity,  love,  and  a  fatal  stubborn 
ness;  "I  came  by  here — I  mean  I  just  happened  to  be 
passing — and  I  thought  if  it  was  a  walking-party, 
well,  why  not  go  along?  That's  the  way  it  struck 
me."  He  paused,  coughing  for  courage  and  trying 
to  look  easily  genial,  but  not  succeeding;  then  he 


58  GENTLE  JULIA 

added,  "Well,  as  I  say,  that's  the  way  it  struck  me — 
as  it  were.  I  suppose  we  might  as  well  be  start- 
ing." 

"Yes,  we  might,"  Newland  Sanders  said  quickly; 
and  he  placed  himself  at  Julia's  left,  seizing  upon  her 
parasol  and  opening  it  with  determination. 

Mr.  Ridgely  had  kept  himself  closely  at  the  lady's 
right.  "You  were  mistaken,  my  boy,"  he  said, 
falsely  benevolent.  "It  isn't  a  party — though 
there's  Miss  Florence,  Noble.  Nobody's  asked  her 
to  go  walking  to-day!" 

Now,  Florence  took  this  satire  literally.  She 
jumped  up  and  said  brightly:  "I  just  as  soon! 
Let's  do  have  a  walking-party.  I  just  as  soon 
walk  with  Mr.  Dill  as  anybody,  and  we  can  all 
keep  together,  kind  of."  With  that,  she  stepped 
confidently  to  the  side  of  her  selected  escort,  who 
appeared  to  be  at  a  loss  how  to  avert  her  kind 
ness. 

There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation,  during  which 
a  malevolent  pleasure  slightly  disfigured  the  coun 
tenances,  of  the  two  gentlemen  with  Julia;  but  when 
Florence  pointed  to  a  house  across  the  street  and 
remarked,  "There's  Great-Uncle  Milford  and  Aunt 
C'nelia;  they  been  lookin'  out  of  their  second  guest- 


GENTLE  JULIA  59 

room  window  about  half  an  hour/'  Julia  uttered  an 
exclamation. 

"Murder!"  she  said,  and  moved  with  decision 
toward  the  gate.  "Let's  go!" 

Thus  the  little  procession  started,  Mr.  Sanders 
and  the  sprightly  widower  at  Beauty's  side,  with 
Florence  and  Mr.  Dill  so  close  behind  that,  before 
they  had  gone  a  block,  Newland  found  it  necessary 
to  warn  this  rear  rank  that  the  heels  of  his  new  shoes 
were  not  part  of  the  pavement.  After  that  the  rear 
rank,  a  little  abashed,  consented  to  fall  back  some 
paces.  Julia's  heightened  colour,  meanwhile,  was 
little  abated  by  some  slight  episodes  attending  the 
progress  of  the  walking-party.  Her  Aunt  Fanny 
Patterson,  rocking  upon  a  veranda,  rose  and  evi 
dently  called  to  someone  within  the  house,  where 
upon  she  was  joined  by  her  invalid  sister,  Aunt 
Harriet,  with  a  trained  nurse  and  two  elderly  domes 
tics,  a  solemnly  whispering  audience.  And  in  the 
front  yard  of  "the  Henry  Atwater  house,"  at  the 
next  corner,  Herbert  underwent  a  genuine  bedazzle- 
ment,  but  he  affected  more.  His  violent  gaze  dwelt 
upon  Florence,  and  he  permitted  his  legs  slowly  to 
crumple  under  him,  until,  just  as  the  party  came 
nearest  him,  he  lay  prostrate  upon  his  back  in  a 


60  GENTLE  JULIA 

swoon.  Afterward  he  rose  and  for  a  time  followed 
in  a  burlesque  manner;  then  decided  to  return  home. 

"Old  heathen!"  said  Florence,  glancing  back  over 
her  shoulder  as  he  disappeared  from  view. 

Mr.  Dill  was  startled  from  a  reverie  inspired  by 
the  back  of  Julia's  head.  "'Heathen'?"  he  said,  in 
plaintive  inquiry. 

"I  meant  Herbert,"  Florence  informed  him. 
"Cousin  Herbert  Atwater.  He  was  following  us, 
walking  Dutch." 

"'Cousin  Herbert  Atwater'?"  said  Noble  dreamily. 
"'Dutch'?" 

"He  won't  any  more,"  said  Florence.  "He 
always  hass  to  show  off,  now  his  voice  is  changing." 
She  spoke,  and  she  also  walked,  with  dignity — a 
rather  dashing  kind  of  dignity,  which  was  what  Her 
bert's  eccentricity  of  gait  intended  to  point  out  in 
juriously.  In  fact,  never  before  had  Florence  been 
so  impressed  with  herself;  never  before,  indeed,  had 
she  been  a  member  of  a  grown-up  non-family  party; 
never  before  had  she  gone  walking  with  an  actual 
adult  young  man  for  her  escort;  and  she  felt  that 
she  owed  it  to  her  position  to  appear  in  as  brilliant 
an  aspect  as  possible.  She  managed  to  give  herself  a 
rhythmical,  switching  motion,  causing  her  knee- 


GENTLE  JULIA  61 

length  skirt  to  swing  from  side  to  side — a  pomp  that 
brought  her  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  as  she  now 
and  then  caught  the  effect  by  twisting  her  neck 
enough  to  see  down  behind,  over  her  shoulder. 

But  her  poise  was  temporarily  threatened  when 
the  walking-party  passed  her  own  house.  Her 
mother  happened  to  be  sitting  near  an  open  window 
upstairs,  and,  after  gazing  forth  with  warm  interest 
at  Julia  and  her  two  outwalkers,  Mrs.  Atwater's 
astonished  eyes  fell  upon  Florence  taking  care  of 
the  overflow.  Florence  bowed  graciously. 

"Florence!"  her  mother  called  down  from  the  win 
dow:  whereupon  both  Florence  and  her  Aunt  Julia 
were  instantly  apprehensive,  for  Mrs.  George  At 
water's  lack  of  tact  was  a  legend  in  the  family. 
"Florence!  Where  on  earth  are  you  going?" 

"Never  mind!"  Florence  thought  best  to  respond. 
"Never  mind!" 

"You'd  better  come  in,"  Mrs.  Atwater  called,  her 
voice  necessarily  louder  as  the  party  moved  onward. 

"Never  mind!"  Florence  called  back. 

Mrs.  Atwater  leaned  out  of  the  window.  "Where 
are  you  going?  Come  back  and  get  your  hat.  You'll 
get  a  sunstroke!" 

Florence  was  able  to  conceal  her  indignation,  and 


62  GENTLE  JULIA 

merely  waved  a  hand  in  airy  dismissal  as  they  passed 
from  Mrs.  Atwater's  sight,  leaving  her  still  shout 
ing. 

The  daughter  smiled  negligently  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders.  "She'll  get  over  it!"  she  said. 

"Who?" 

"My  mother.  She  was  the  one  makin'  all  that 
noise,"  said  Florence.  "Sometimes  I  do  what  she 
says:  sometimes  I  don't.  It's  all  accordings  to  the 
way  I  feel."  She  looked  up  in  her  companion's 
face,  and  her  expression  became  politely  fond  as  she 
thought  how  uncouth  he  was,  for  in  Florence's  eye 
Noble  Dill  was  truly  rare,  exquisite,  and  unfamiliar; 
and  she  believed  that  he  was  obs,  too,  whatever 
that  meant.  She  often  thought  about  him,  and  no 
longer  ago  than  yesterday  she  had  told  Kitty  Silver 
that  she  couldn't  see  "how  Aunt  Julia  could  look  at 
anybody  else!" 

Florence's  selection  of  Noble  Dill  for  the  bright 
favourite  of  her  dreams  was  one  of  her  own  mysteries'. 
Noble  was  not  beautiful,  neither  did  he  present  to  the 
ordinary  eye  of  man  anything  especially  rare,  ex 
quisite,  unfamiliar,  or  even  so  distinguished  as  to  be 
obsolete.  He  was  about  twenty-two,  but  not  one  of 
those  book-read  sportsmen  of  that  age,  confident 


GENTLE  JULIA  63 

in  clothes  and  manner,  easy  travellers  and  debonair; 
that  is  to  say,  Noble  was  not  of  the  worldly  type 
twenty-two.  True,  he  had  graduated  from  the  High- 
school  before  entering  his  father's  Real  Estate  and 
Insurance  office,  but  his  geographical  experiences  (in 
particular)  had  been  limited  to  three  or  four  railway 
excursions,  at  special  rates,  to  such  points  of  interest 
as  Mammoth  Cave  and  Petoskey,  Michigan.  His 
other  experiences  were  not  more  sparkling,  and 
except  for  the  emotions  within  him,  he  was  in  all  the 
qualities  of  his  mind  as  well  as  in  his  bodily  contours 
and  the  apparel  sheltering  the  latter,  the  most 
commonplace  person  in  Florence's  visible  world.  The 
inner  areas  of  the  first  and  second  fingers  of  his  left 
hand  bore  cigarette  stains,  seemingly  indelible:  the 
first  and  second  fingers  of  his  right  hand  were 
strongly  ornamented  in  a  like  manner;  tokens  proving 
him  ambidextrous  to  but  a  limited  extent,  however. 
Moreover,  his  garments  and  garnitures  were  not 
comparable  to  those  of  either  Newland  Sanders  or 
that  dapper  antique,  Mr.  Ridgely.  Noble's  straw 
hat  might  have  brightened  under  the  treatment  of 
lemon  juice  or  other  restorative;  his  scarf  was 
folded  to  hide  a  spot  that  worked  steadily  toward  a 
complete  visibility,  and  some  recent  efforts  upon  his 


64  GENTLE  JULIA 

trousers  with  a  tepid  iron,  in  his  bedchamber  at 
home,  counteracted  but  feebly  that  tendency  of  cloth 
to  sculpture  itself  in  hummocks  upon  repeated 
pressure  of  the  human  knee. 

All  in  all,  nothing  except  the  expression  of  Noble's 
face  and  the  somewhat  ill-chosen  pansy  in  his  button 
hole  hinted  of  the  remarkable.  Yet  even  here  was  a 
thing  for  which  he  was  not  responsible  himself;  it 
was  altogether  the  work  of  Julia.  What  her  work 
was,  in  the  case  of  Noble  Dill,  may  be  expressed 
in  a  word — a  word  used  not  only  by  the  whole  At- 
water  family  connection,  in  completely  expressing 
Noble's  condition,  but  by  Noble's  own  family  con 
nection  as  well.  This  complete  word  was  "awful." 

Florence  was  the  one  exception  on  the  Atwater 
side:  she  was  far,  far  from  thinking  or  speaking  of 
Noble  Dill  in  that  way,  although,  until  she  looked 
up  "uncouth"  in  Webster's  Collegiate  Dictionary, 
she  had  not  found  suitable  means  to  describe  him. 
And  now,  as  she  walked  at  his  side,  she  found  her 
sensations  to  be  nothing  short  of  thrilling.  For  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  this  was  her  first  and 
wholly  unexpected  outburst  into  society;  the  experi 
ence  was  that  of  an  obscure  aerolite  suddenly  become 
a  noble  meteor.  She  longed  to  say  or  do  something 


GENTLE  JULIA  65 

magnificent — something  strange  and  exhilarating, 
in  keeping  with  her  new  station  in  life. 

It  was  this  longing,  and  by  no  means  a  confirmed 
unveracity,  that  prompted  her  to  amplify  her  com 
ments  upon  her  own  filial  independence.  "Oh,  I 
guess  I  pretty  near  never  do  anything  I  don't  want 
to,"  she  said.  "I  kind  of  run  the  house  to  suit  myself. 
I  guess  if  the  truth  had  to  be  told,  I  just  about  run 
the  whole  Atwater  family,  when  it  comes  to  that!" 

The  statement  was  so  noticeable  that  it  succeeded 
in  turning  Noble's  attention  from  the  back  of  Julia's 
head.  "You  do?"  he  said.  "Well,  that  seems 
queer,"  he  added  absently. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  she  laughed.  In  her  increas 
ing  exaltation  things  appeared  actually  to  be  as  she 
wished  them  to  be;  an  atmosphere  both  queenly  and 
adventurous  seemed  to  invest  her,  and  any  remnants 
of  human  caution  in  her  were  assuaged  by  the  cir 
cumstance  that  her  Aunt  Julia's  attention  was  sub 
ject  to  the  strong  demands  necessarily  imposed  upon 
anybody  taking  a  walk  between  two  gentlemen  who 
do  not  "speak"  to  each  other.  "Oh,  I  don't  know," 
said  Florence.  "The  family's  used  to  it  by  this 
time,  I  guess.  The  way  I  do  things,  they  haf  to  be, 
I  guess.  When  they  don't  like  it  I  don't  say  much  for 


66  GENTLE  JULIA 

a  while,  then  I  just "  She  paused,  waiting  for 

her  imagination  to  supply  a  sequel  to  the  drama  just 
sketched.  "Well,  I  guess  they  kind  of  find  out  they 
better  step  around  pretty  lively,"  she  concluded 
darkly.  "They  don't  bother  around  too  much!" 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Noble,  his  vacancy  and 
credulity  continuing  to  dovetail  perfectly. 

"You  bet  not!"  the  exuberant  Florence  thought 
proper  to  suggest  as  a  preferable  expression.  And 
then  she  had  an  inspiration  to  enliven  his  dreamy  in 
terest  in  her  conversation.  "Grandpa,  he's  the  one 
I  kind  of  run  most  of  all  of  'em.  He's  about  fifty 
or  sixty,  and  so  he  hasn't  got  too  much  sense.  What 
I  mean,  he  hasn't  got  too  much  sense  left,  you  know. 
So  I  haf  to  sort  of  take  holt  every  now  and  then." 
She  lowered  her  voice  a  little,  some  faint  whisper  of 
discretion  reaching  her  inward  ear.  "Aunt  Julia 
can't  do  a  thing  with  him.  I  guess  that's  maybe  the 
reason  she  kind  of  depen's  on  me  so  much;  or  anyway 
somep'n  like  that.  You  know,  f'r  instance,  I  had 
to  help  talk  grandpa  into  lettin'  her  send  to  New 
York  for  her  things.  Aunt  Julia  gets  all  her  things  in 
New  York." 

Undeniably,  Mr.  Dill's  interest  flickered  up. 
" Things?"  he  repeated  inquiringly.  "Her  things ?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  67 

"Yes.     Everything  she  wears,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes." 

""What  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you,"  Florence  continued, 
"you  know  grandpa  just  about  hates  everybody. 
Anyhow,  he'd  like  to  have  some  peace  and  quiet  once 
in  a  while  in  his  own  house,  he  says,  instead  of  all 
this  moil  and  turmoil,  and  because  the  doctor  said 
all  the  matter  with  her  was  she  eats  too  much  candy, 
and  they  keep  sencjin'  more  all  the  time — and  there's 
somep'n  the  trouble  with  grandpa:  it  makes  him  sick 
to  smell  violets:  he  had  it  ever  since  he  was  a  little 
boy,  and  he  can't  help  it;  and  he  hates  animals,  and 
they  keep  sendin'  her  Airedales  and  Persian  kit 
tens,  and  then  there  was  that  alligator  came  from 
Florida  and  upset  Kitty  Silver  terribly — and  so, 
you  see,  grandpa  just  hates  the  whole  everlasting 
business." 

Mr.  Dill  nodded  and  spoke  with  conviction: 
"He's  absoutely  right;  absolutely!" 

"Well,  some  ways  he  is,"  said  Florence;  and  she 
added  confidentially:  "The  trouble  is,  he  seems  to 
think  you're  about  as  bad  as  any  of  'em." 

"What?" 

"Well  /"  Florence  exclaimed, with  upward  gestures 
both  of  eye  and  of  hand,  to  signify  what  she  left 


68  GENTLE  JULIA 

untold  of  Mr.  At  water's  orations  upon  his  favourite 
subject:  Noble  Dill.  "It's  torrable!"  she  added. 

Noble  breathed  heavily,  but  a  thought  struggled 
in  him  and  a  brightening  appeared  upon  him.  "You 

mean "  he  began.  "Do  you  mean  it's  terrible 

for  your  Aunt  Julia?  Do  you  mean  his  injustice 
about  me  makes  her  feel  terribly?" 

"No,"  said  Florence.  "No:  I  mean  the  way  he 
goes  on  about  everybody.  But  Aunt  Julia's  kind  of 
used  to  it.  And  anyhow  you  needn't  worry  about 
him  'long  as  I'm  on  your  side.  He  won't  do  any 
thing  much  to  you  if  I  say  not  to.  Hardly  anything 
at  all."  And  then,  with  almost  a  tenderness,  as  she 
marked  the  visibly  insufficient  reassurance  of  her 
companion,  she  said  handsomely:  "He  won't  say  a 
word.  I'll  tell  him  not  to." 

Noble  was  dazed;  no  novelty,  for  he  had  been  dazed 
almost  continually  during  the  past  seven  months, 
since  a  night  when  dancing  with  Julia,  whom  he  had 
known  all  his  life,  he  ie  noticed,  for  the  first  time  what 
she  looked  like."  (This  was  his  mother's  descrip 
tion.)  Somewhere,  he  vaguely  recalled,  he  had 
read  of  the  extraordinary  influence  possessed  by 
certain  angelic  kinds  of  children;  he  knew,  too,  what 
favourite  grandchildren  can  do  with  grandfathers. 


GENTLE  JULIA  69 

The  effect  upon  him  was  altogether  base;  he  imme 
diately  sought  by  flattery  to  increase  and  retain 
Florence's  kindness.  "I  always  thought  you  seemed 
to  know  more  than  most  girls  of  your  age,"  he 
began. 

It  was  a  great  afternoon  for  Florence.  From 
time  to  time  she  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  the 
switching  skirt,  and  increased  its  radius  of  action, 
though  this  probably  required  more  exercise,  com 
pared  to  the  extent  of  ground  covered,  than  any  lady 
member  of  a  walking-party  had  ever  before  taken, 
merely  as  a  pedestrian.  Meanwhile,  she  chattered 
on,  but  found  time  to  listen  to  the  pleasant  things 
said  to  her  by  her  companion;  and  though  most 
of  these  were,  in  truth,  rather  vague,  she  was  won 
to  him  more  than  he  knew.  Henceforth  she  was 
to  be  his  champion  indeed,  sometimes  with  greater 
energy  than  he  would  need. 

.  .  .  The  two  were  left  alone  together  by  Julia's 
gate  when  the  walk  (as  short  as  Julia  dared  to  make 
it)  was  over. 

"Well,"  Florence  said,  "I've  had  quite  a  nice  time. 
I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourself  nicely,  too,  Mr.  Dill." 
Then  her  eye  rose  to  the  overhanging  branch  of  a 
shade-tree  near  them.  "Would  you  like  to  see  me 


70  GENTLE  JULIA 

chin  myself?"  she  asked,  stepping  beneath  the 
branch.  "I  bet  I  could  skin-the-cat  on  that  limb! 
Would  you  like  to  see  me  do  it?" 

"I  would  so  /"  the  flatterer  enthused. 

She  became  thoughtful,  remembering  that  she 
was  now  a  lady  who  took  walks  with  grown  gentle 
men.  "I  can,  but  I  won't,"  she  said.  "I  used  to 
do  lots  of  things  like  that.  I  used  to  whenever  I  felt 
like  it.  I  could  chin  myself  four  times  and  Herbert 
only  three.  I  was  lots  better  than  Herbert  when  I 
used  to  do  all  kinds  of  things  like  that." 

"Were  you?" 

She  laughed  as  in  a  musing  retrospect  of  times 
gone  by.  "I  guess  I  used  to  be  a  pretty  queer  kind 
of  a  girl  in  those  days,"  she  said.  "Well — I  s'pose 
we  ought  to  say  good-bye  for  the  present,  so  to  speak, 
Mr.  Dill." 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

"  Well "  She  stood  looking  at  him  expectantly, 

but  he  said  nothing  more.  "Well,  good-bye  for 
the  present,  Mr.  Dill,"  she  said  again,  and,  turning, 
walked  away  with  dignity.  But  a  moment  later  she 
forgot  all  about  her  skirt  and  scampered. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

MRS.  DILL,  Noble's  mother,  talked  of  "or 
ganizing  a  Young  Men's  Mothers'  Club 
against  Julia,  nevertheless  she  acknowl 
edged  that  in  one  solitary  way  Noble  was  being  im 
proved  by  the  experience.  His  two  previous  attacks 
of  love  (one  at  twelve,  and  the  other  at  eighteen) 
had  been  incomparably  lighter,  and  the  changes 
in  him,  noted  at  home,  merely  a  slight  general 
irritability  and  a  lack  of  domestic  punctuality  due 
to  too  much  punctuality  elsewhere.  But,  when  his 
Julia  Atwater  trouble  came,  the  very  first  symp 
tom  he  manifested  was  a  strange  new  effort  to  be 
come  beautiful;  his  mother  even  discovered  that  he 
sometimes  worked  with  pumice  stone  upon  the  ciga 
rette  stains  on  his  fingers. 

The  most  curious  thing  about  his  condition  was 
that  for  a  long  time  he  took  it  for  granted  that  his 
family  did  not  know  what  was  the  matter  with  him; 
and  this  shows  as  nothing  else  could  the  meekness 

71 


72  GENTLE  JULIA 

and  tact  of  the  Dills;  for,  excluding  bad  cooks  and 
the  dangerously  insane,  the  persons  most  disturbing 
to  the  serenity  of  households  are  young  lovers.  But 
the  world  has  had  to  accommodate  itself  to  them 
because  young  lovers  cannot  possibly  accommodate 
themselves  to  the  world.  For  the  young  lover  there 
is  no  general  life  of  the  species;  for  him  the  universe 
is  a  delicate  blush  under  a  single  bonnet.  He  has 
but  an  irritated  perception  of  every  vital  thing  in 
nature  except  the  vital  thing  under  this  bonnet;  all 
else  is  trivial  intrusion.  But  whatever  does  concern 
the  centrifugal  bonnet,  whatever  concerns  it  in  the 
remotest — ah,  then  he  springs  to  life!  So  Noble  Dill 
sat  through  a  Sunday  dinner  at  home,  seemingly 
drugged  to  a  torpor,  while  the  family  talk  went  on 
about  him;  but  when  his  father,  in  the  course  of 
some  remarks  upon  politics,  happened  to  mention 
the  name  of  the  county-treasurer,  Charles  J.  Patter 
son,  Noble's  startled  attention  to  the  conversation 
was  so  conspicuous  as  to  be  disconcerting.  Mrs. 
Dill  signalled  with  her  head  that  comment  should  be 
omitted,  and  Mr.  Dill  became,  for  the  moment,  one 
factor  in  a  fairly  clear  example  of  telepathic  com 
munication,  for  it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  his 
wife's  almost  imperceptible  gesture  was  what  caused 


GENTLE  JULIA  73 

him  to  remember  that  Charles  J.  Patterson  was  Julia 
Atwater's  uncle. 

That  name,  Charles  J.  Patterson,  coming  thus 
upon  Noble's  ear,  was  like  an  unexpected  shrine  on 
the  wayside  where  plods  the  fanatic  pilgrim;  and 
yet  Mr.  Patterson  was  the  most  casual  of  Julia's 
uncles-by-marriage:  he  neither  had  nor  desired  any 
effect  upon  her  destiny.  To  Noble  he  seemed  a  being 
ineffably  privileged  and  fateful,  and  something  of  the 
same  quality  invested  the  wooden  gateposts  in  front 
of  Julia's  house;  invested  everything  that  had  to  do 
with  her.  What  he  felt  about  her  father,  that 
august  old  danger,  himself,  was  not  only  the  un 
called-for  affection  inevitable  toward  Julia's  next  of 
kin,  but  also  a  kind  of  horror  due  to  the  irresponsible 
and  awful  power  possessed  by  a  sacred  girl's 
parent.  Florence's  offer  of  protection  had  not 
entirely  reassured  the  young  lover,  and,  in  sum, 
Noble  loved  Mr.  Atwater,  but  often,  in  his  reveries, 
when  he  had  rescued  him  from  drowning  or  being 
burned  to  death,  he  preferred  to  picture  the  peculiar 
old  man's  injuries  as  ultimately  fatal. 

For  the  other  Atwaters  his  feeling  held  less  of 
apprehension,  more  of  tenderness;  and  whenever  he 
saw  one  of  them  he  became  deferential  and  a  little 


74  GENTLE  JULIA 

short  of  breath.  Thus,  on  a  sunny  afternoon,  hav 
ing  been  home  to  lunch  after  his  morning  labour 
downtown,  he  paused  in  passing  young  Herbert's 
place  of  residence  and  timidly  began  a  conversation 
with  this  glamoured  nephew.  It  happened  that 
during  the  course  of  the  morning  Herbert  had  chosen 
a  life  career  for  himself;  he  had  decided  to  become  a 
scientific  specialist,  an  entomologist;  and  he  was  now 
on  his  knees  studying  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
bug  inhabitants  of  the  lawn  before  the  house,  em 
ploying  for  his  purpose  a  large  magnifying  lens,  or 
"reading  glass."  (His  discovery  of  this  implement 
in  the  attic,  coincidentally  with  his  reading  a  recent 
"Sunday  Supplement"  article  on  bugs,  had  led  to 
his  sudden  choice  of  a  vocation.  ? 

"Did  somebody — ah,  have  any  of  the  family  lost 
anything,  Herbert?"  Noble  asked  in  a  gentle  voice* 
speaking  across  the  fence. 

Herbert  did  not  look  up,  nor  did  he  relax  the 
scientific  frown  upon  his  brow.^  "No/*  he  said. 
"They  always  are  losin'  things,  espesh'ly  Aunt  Julia, 
when  she  comes  over  here,  or  anywheres  else;  but  I 
wouldn't  waste  my  time  lookin'  for  any  old  earrings 
or  such.  I  got  more  important  things  to  do  on 
my  hands." 


GENTLE  JULIA  75 

"Has  your  Aunt  Julia  lost  an  earring,  Herbert?" 

"Her?  Well,  she  nearly  always  has  lost  somep'n 
or  other,  but  that  isn't  bother 'n'  me  any.  I  got 
better  things  to  do  with  my  time."  Herbert  spoke 
without  interrupting  his  occupation  or  relaxing  his 
forehead.  "Nacher'l  history  is  a  little  more  im 
portant  to  the  inhabitants  of  our  universe  than  a  lot 
o'  worthless  jew'lry,  I  guess,"  he  continued;  and  his 
pride  in  discovering  that  he  could  say  things  like 
this  was  so  great  that  his  frown  gave  way  tempo 
rarily  to  a  look  of  pleased  surprise,  then  came  back 
again  to  express  an  importance  much  increased.  He 
rose,  approached  the  fence,  and  condescended  to 
lean  upon  it.  1<4I  don't  guess  there's  one  person  in 
a  thousand,"  he  said,  "that  knows  what  they  ought 
to  know  about  our  inseck  friends." 

"No,"  Mr.  Dill  agreed  readily/  "I  guess  that's 
so.  I  guess  you're  right  about  that,  Herbert.  When 
did  your  Aunt  Julia  lose  the  earring,  Herbert?" 

"I  d'  know,"  said  Herbert.  "Now,  you  take  my 
own  father  and  mother:  What  do  they  know?  Well, 
mighty  little.  They  may  have  had  to  learn  a  little 
teeny  bit  about  insecks  when  they  were  in  school, 
but  whatever  little  it  was  they  went  and  forgot  it 
proba'ly  long  before  they  were  married.  Well,  that's 


76  GENTLE  JULIA 

no  way.  F'r  instance,  you  take  a  pinchin'  bug:  What 
do  you  suppose  my  father  and  mother  know  about 
its  position  in  the  inseck  world?" 

"Well "[said  Noble  uneasily.   "Well "He 

coughed,  and  hastened  to  add:  "But  as  I  was  saying, 
if  she  lost  her  earring  somewhere  in  your  yard, 

55 

The  scientific  boy  evidently  did  not  follow  this 
line  of  thought,  for  he  interrupted:  "Why,  they 
wouldn't  know  a  thing  about  it,  and  a  pinchin'  bug 
isn't  one  of  the  highest  insecks  at  all.  Ants  are  way 
up  compared  to  most  pinchin'  bugs.  Ants  are 

way  up  anyway.     Now,  you  take  an  ant "     He 

paused.  "Well,  everybody  ought  to  know  a  lot. 
more'n  they  do  about  ants.  It  takes  time,  and  you 
got  to  study  'em  the  right  way,  and  of  course  there's 
lots  of  people  wouldn't  know  how  to  do  it.  I'm  goin' 
to  get  a  book  I  been  readin'  *  about.  It's  called 
The  Ant.'" 

For  a  moment  Noble  was  confused;  he  followed  his 
young  friend's  discourse  but  hazily,  and  Herbert 
pronounced  the  word  "ant"  precisely  as  he  pro 
nounced  the  word  "aunt."  The  result  was  that 
Noble  began  to  say  something  rather  dreamy  con 
cerning  the  book  just  mentioned,  but,  realizing  that 


GENTLE  JULIA  77 

he  was  being  misunderstood,  he  changed  his  murmur 
into  a  cough,  and  inquired: 

"When  was  she  over  here,  Herbert?" 

"Who?" 

"Your  Aunt  Julia." 

"Yesterday  evening,"  said  Herbert.  "Now,  f'r 
instance,  you  take  a  common  lightning-bug " 

"Did  she  lose  it,  then?" 

"Lose  what?" 

"Her  earring." 

"I  d'  know,"  said  Herbert.  ^}"  You  take  the 
common  lightning-bug  or,  as  it's  called  in  some 
countries,  the  firefly " 

He  continued,  quoting  and  misquoting  the  ento 
mological  authority  of  the  recent  "Sunday  Supple 
ment";  but  his  friend  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence 
was  inattentive  to  the  lecture.  Noble's  mind  was 
occupied  with  a  wonder;  he  had  realized,  though 
dimly,  that  here  was  he,  trying  to  make  starry  Julia 
the  subject  of  a  conversation  with  a  person  who  had 
the  dear  privilege  of  being  closely  related  to  her — and 
preferred  to  talk  about  bugs. 

Herbert  talked  at  considerable  length  about 
lightning-bugs,  but  as  his  voice  happend  rather 
precociously  to  be  already  in  a  state  of  adolescent 


78  GENTLE  JULIA 

change,  the  sound  was  not  soothing;  yet  Noble 
lingered.  Nephews  were  queer,  but  this  one  was 
Julia's,  and  he  finally  mentioned  her  again,  as  in 
cidental  to  lightning-bugs;  whereupon  the  mere 
hearer  of  sounds  became  instantly  a  listener  to  words. 
"Well,  and  then  I  says,"  Herbert  continued;— 
"I  says:  'It's  phosphorus,  Aunt  Julia.'  I  guess 
there's  hardly  anybody  in  the  world  doesn't  know 
more  than  Aunt  Julia,  except  about  dresses  and 
parasols  and  every  other  useless  thing  under  the  sun. 
She  says:  'My!  I  always  thought  it  was  sulphur!' 
Said  nobody  ever  told  her  it  wasn't  sulphur!  I  asked 
her:  I  said:  'You  mean  to  sit  there  and  tell  me  you 
don't  know  the  difference?'  And  she  says:  1 
don't  care  one  way  or  the  other,'  she  says.  She 
said  she  just  as  soon  a  lightning-bug  made  his  light 
with  sulphur  as  with  phosphorus;  it  didn't  make  any 
difference  to  her,  she  says,  and  they  could  go  ahead 
and  make  their  light  any  way  they  wanted,  she 
wouldn't  interfere!  \t  had  a  whole  hatful  of  'em,  and 
she  told  me  not  to  take  'em  into  their  house,  because 
grandpa  hates  insecks  as  much  as  he  does  animals 
and  violets,  and  she  said  they  never  owned  a  mi 
croscope  or  a  magnify  ing-glass  in  their  lives,  and 
wouldn't  let  me  hunt  for  one.  All  in  the  world  she 


GENTLE  JULIA  79 

knows  is  how  to  sit  on  the  front  porch  and  say:  'Oh 
you  don't  mean  that!9  to  somebody  like  Newland 
Sanders  or  that  ole  widower!" 

"When?"  Noble  asked  impulsively.  "When  did 
she  say  that?" 

"Oh,  I  d'  know,"  said  Herbert.  "I  expect  she 
proba'ly  says  it  to  somebody  or  other  about  every 
evening  there  is." 

"She  does?" 

"Florence  says  so," '.Herbert  informed  him  care 
lessly.  ^  "Florence  goes  over  to  grandpa's  after  dark 
and  sits  on  the  ground  up  against  the  porch  and 
listens." 

Noble  first  looked  startled  then  uneasily  remi 
niscent.  "I  don't  believe  Florence  ought  to  do  that," 
he  said  gravely. 

"7  wouldn't  do  it!"     Herbert  was  emphatic. 

"That's  right,  Herbert.     I'm  glad  you  wouldn't." 

"No,  sir,"  the  manly  boy  declared.  "You  wouldn't 
never  catch  me  takin'  my  death  o'  cold  sittin'  on  the 
damp  grass  in  the  night  air  just  to  listen  to  a  lot  o' 
tooty-tooty  about  'I've  named  a  star  for  you,'  and 
all  such.  You  wouldn't  catch  me " 

Noble  partly  concealed  a  sudden  anguish.  "Who?" 
he  interrupted.  "Who  did  she  say  that  to?" 


80  GENTLE  JULIA 

"She  didn't.  They  say  it  to  her,  and  she  says: 
'Oh,  you  don't  mean  that!'  and  of  course  then  they 

haf  to  go  on  and  say  some  more.  Florence  says " 

He  checked  himself.  "  Oh,  I  forgot !  I  promised 
Florence  I  wouldn't  tell  anything  about  all  this." 

"It's  safe,"  Noble  assured  him  quickly.  "I'm 
quite  a  friend  of  Florence's  and  it's  absolutely  safe 
with  me.  I  won't  speak  of  it  to  anybody,  Herbert. 
Who  was  it  told  her  he'd  named  a  star  for  her?" 

"It  was  the  way  some  ole  poem  began.  Newland 
Sanders  wrote  it.  Florence  found  it  under  Aunt 
Julia's  sofa-cushions  and  read  it  all  through,  but  / 
wouldn't  wade  through  all  that  tooty-tooty  for  a 
million  dollars,  and  I  told  her  to  put  it  back  before 
Aunt  Julia  noticed.  Well,  about  every  day  he 
writes  her  a  fresh  one,  and  then  in  the  evening  he 
stays  later  than  the  rest,  and  reads  'em  to  her — and 
you  ought  to  hear  grandpa  when  he  gets  to  talkin' 
about  it!" 

"He's  perfectly  right,"  said  Noble.  "Perfectly! 
What  does  he  say  when  he  talks  about  it,  Herbert?" 

"Oh,  he  says  all  this  and  that;  and  then  he  kind 
of  mutters  around,  and  you  can't  tell  just  what  all 
the  words  are  exactly, 'vso't  he  can  deny  it  if  any  o' 
the  family  accuses  him  of  swearing  or  anything." 


GENTLE  JULIA  81 

And  Herbert  added  casually:  "He  was  kind  of  goin' 
on  like  that  about  you,  night  before  last." 

"About  me!    Why,  what  could  he  say  about  me?" 

"Oh,  all  this  and  that." 

"But  what  did  he  find  to  say?" 

"Well,  he  heard  her  tellin'  you  how  you  oughtn't 
to  smoke  so  many  cigarettes  and  all  about  how  it  was 
killin'  you,  and  you  sayin'  you  guessed  it  wouldn't 
matter  if  you  did  die,  and  Aunt  Julia  sayin'  'Oh, 
you  don't  mean  that,'  and  all  this  and  such  and  so  on, 
you  know.  He  can  hear  anything  on  the  porch 
pretty  good  from  the  lib'ary;!and  Florence  told  me 
about  that,  besides,  because  she  was  sittin'  in  the 
grass  and  all.  She  told  Great-Uncle  Joe  and  Aunt 
Hattie  about  it,  too."* 

"My  heavens!"  Noble  gasped,  as  for  the  first  time 
he  realized  to  what  trumpeting  publicity  that  seem 
ingly  hushed  and  moonlit  bower,  sacred  to  Julia, 
had  been  given  over.  He  gulped,  flushed,  repeated 
"My  heavens!"  and  then  was  able  to  add,  with  a 
feeble  suggestion  of  lightness^  "I  suppose  your 
grandfather  understood  it  was  just  a  sort  of  joke, 
didn't  he?" 

"No,"  said  Herbert,  and  continued  in  a  friendly 
way,  for  he  was  flattered  by  Noble's  interest  in  his 


82  GENTLE  JULIA 

remarks,  and  began  to  feel  a  liking  for  him.  "No. 
He  said  Aunt  Julia  only  talked  like  that  because  she 
couldn't  think  of  anything  else  to  say,  and  it  was 
wearin'  him  out.  He  said  all  the  good  it  did  was  to 
make  you  smoke  more  to  make  her  think  how  reck 
less  you  were;  but  the  worst  part  of  it  was,  he'd  be 
the  only  one  to  suffer,  because  it  blows  all  through 
the  house  and  he's  got  to  sit  in  it.  He  said  he  just 
could  stand  the  smell  of  some  cigarettes,  but  if  you 
burned  any  more  o'  yours  on  his  porch  he  was  goin' 
to  ask  your  father  to  raise  your  salary  for  collectin' 
real-estate  rents,  so't  you'd  feel  able  to  buy  some  real 
tobacco.  He " 

But  the  flushed  listener  felt  that  he  had  heard  as 
much  as  he  was  called  upon  to  bear;  and  he  in 
terrupted,  in  a  voice  almost  out  of  control,  to  say 
that  he  must  be  "getting  on  downtown."  His  young 
friend,  diverted  from  bugs,  showed  the  greatest  will 
ingness  to  continue  the  narrative  indefinitely,  evi 
dently  being  in  possession  of  copious  material;  but 
Noble  turned  to  depart.  An  afterthought  detained 
him.  "Where  was  it  she  lost  her  earring?" 

"Who?" 

"Your  Aunt  Julia." 

"Why,  /  didn't  say  she  lost  any  earring,"  Herbert 


GENTLE  JULIA  83 

returned.  /  "I  said  she  always  was  losin'  'em:  I 
didn't  say  she  did." 

"Then  you  didn't  mean " 

"No,"  said  Herbert,  "7  haven't  heard  of  her  losin' 
anything  at  all,  lately."  ,Here  he  added:  "Well, 

grandpa  kept  goin'  on  about  you,  and  he  told  her 

Well,  so  long!"  And  gazed  after  the  departing  Mr. 
Dill  in  some  surprise  at  the  abruptness  of  the  latter's 
leave-taking.  Then,  wondering  how  the  back  of 
Noble's  neck  could  have  got  itself  so  fiery  sunburnt, 
Herbert  returned  to  his  researches  in  the  grass.  \ 

The  peaceful  street,  shady  and  fragrant  with 
summer,  was  so  quiet  that  the  footfalls  of  the  striding 
Noble  were  like  an  interruption  of  coughing  in  a  silent 
church.  As  he  seethed  adown  the  warm  sidewalk  the 
soles  of  his  shoes  smote  the  pavement,  for  mentally  he 
was  walking  not  upon  cement  but  upon  Mr.  Atwater. 

Unconsciously  his  pace  presently  became  slower 
for  a  more  concentrated  brooding  upon  this  slander 
ous  old  man  who  took  advantage  of  his  position  to 
poison  his  daughter's  mind  against  the  only  one  of 
her  suitors  who  cared  in  the  highest  way.  And 
upon  this  there  came  an  infinitesimal  consolation  in 
the  midst  of  anguish,  for  he  thought  of  what  Herbert 


84  GENTLE  JULIA 

had  told  him  about  Mr.  Newland  Sanders's  poems 
to  Julia,  and  he  had  a  strong  conviction  that  one  time 
or  another  Mr.  At  water  must  have  spoken  even 
more  disparagingly  of  these  poems  and  their  author 
than  he  had  of  Orduma  cigarettes  and  their  smoker. 
Perhaps  the  old  man  was  not  altogether  vile. 

This  charitable  moment  passed.  He  recalled  the 
little  moonlit  drama  on  the  embowered  veranda, 
when  Julia,  in  her  voice  of  plucked  harp  strings,  told 
him  that  he  smoked  too  much,  and  he  had  said  it 
didn't  matter;  nobody  would  care  much  if  he  died — 
and  Julia  said  gently  that  his  mother  would,  and 
other  people,  too;  he  mustn't  talk  so  recklessly.  Out 
of  this  the  old  eavesdropper  had  viciously  repre 
sented  him  to  be  a  poser,  not  really  reckless  at  all; 
had  insulted  his  cigarettes  and  his  salary.  Well, 
Noble  would  show  him!  He  had  doubts  about 
being  able  to  show  Mr.  At  water  anything  important 
connected  with  the  cigarettes  or  the  salary,  but  he 
could  prove  how  reckless  he  was.  With  that,  a 
vision  formed  before  him :  he  saw  Julia  and  her  father 
standing  spellbound  at  a  crossing  while  a  smiling 
youth  stood  directly  between  the  rails  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  and  let  a  charging  trolley-car  destroy 
not  instantly,  for  he  would  live  long  enough 


GENTLE  JULIA  85 

to  whisper,  as  the  stricken  pair  bent  over  him:  "Now, 
Julia,  which  do  you  believe:  your  father,  or  me?" 
And  then  with  a  slight,  dying  sneer:  "Well,  Mr. 
Atwater,  is  this  reckless  enough  to  suit  you?" 

Town  squirrels  flitted  along  their  high  paths  in 
the  shade-tree  branches  above  the  embittered  young 
lover,  and  he  noticed  them  not  at  all,  which  was  but 
little  less  than  he  noticed  the  elderly  human  couple 
who  observed  him  from  a  side-yard  as  he  passed  by. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burgess  had  been  happily  married  for 
fifty -three  years  and  four  months.  Mr.  Burgess  lay 
in  a  hammock  between  two  maple  trees,  and  was 
soothingly  swung  by  means  of  a  string  connecting 
the  hammock  and  the  rocking-chair  in  which  sat  Mrs 
Burgess,  acting  as  a  mild  motor  for  both  the  chair 
and  the  hammock.  "That's  Noble  Dill  walking 
along  the  sidewalk,"  Mrs.  Burgess  said,  interpreting 
for  her  husband's  failing  eyes.  "I  bowed  to  him, 
but  he  hardly  seemed  to  see  us  and  just  barely  lifted 
his  hat.  He  needn't  be  cross  with  us  because  some 
other  young  man's  probably  taking  Julia  Atwater 
out  driving!" 

"Yes,  he  need!"  Mr.  Burgess  declared.  "A  boy  in 
his  condition  needs  to  be  cross  with  everything. 


86  GENTLE  JULIA 

Sometimes  they  get  so  cross  they  go  and  drink  liquor. 
Don't  you  remember?" 

She  laughed.  "I  remember  once!"  she  assented, 
and  laughed  again. 

"Why,  it's  a  terrible  time  of  life,"  her  husband 
went  on.  "Poets  and  suchlike  always  take  on  about 
young  love  as  if  it  were  a  charming  and  romantic 
experience,  but  really  it's  just  a  series  of  mortifica 
tions.  The  young  lover  is  always  wanting  to  do 
something  dashing  and  romantic  and  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh-like,  but  in  ordinary  times  about  the  wildest 
thing  he  can  do,  if  he  can  afford  it,  is  to  learn  to  run 
a  Ford.  And  he  can't  stand  a  word  of  criticism;  he 
can't  stand  being  made  the  least  little  bit  of  fun  of; 
and  yet  all  the  while  his  state  of  mind  lays  him 
particularly  open  to  all  the  things  he  can't  stand.  He 
can't  stand  anything,  and  he  has  to  stand  every 
thing.  Why,  it's  a  horrible  time  of  life,  mamma!' 

"Yes,  it  is,"  she  assented  placidly.  "I'm  glad  we 
don't  have  to  go  through  it  again,  Freddie;  though 
you're  only  eighty-two,  and  with  a  girl  like  Julia 
At  water  around  nobody  ought  to  be  sure." 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

A  THOUGH  Noble  had  saluted  the  old  couple 
so  crossly,  thus  unconsciously  making 
them,  as  he  made  the  sidewalk,  proxy  for 
Mr.  Atwater,  so  to  speak,  yet  the  sight  of  them 
penetrated  his  outer  layers  of  preoccupation  and  had 
an  effect  upon  him.  In  the  midst  of  his  suffering  his 
imagination  paused  for  a  shudder:  What  miserable 
old  gray  shadows  those  two  were !  Thank  Heaven 
he  and  Julia  could  never  be  like  that!  And  in  the 
haze  that  rose  before  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  him 
self  leading  Julia  through  years  of  adventure  in  far 
parts  of  the  world:  there  were  glimpses  of  himself 
fighting  grotesque  figures  on  the  edge  of  Himalayan 
precipices  at  dawn,  while  Julia  knelt  by  the  tent 
on  the  glacier  and  prayed  for  him.  He  saw  head- 
waiters  bowing  him  and  Julia  to  tables  in  "  strange, 
foreign  cafes,"  and  when  they  were  seated,  and  he 
had  ordered  dishes  that  amazed  her,  he  would  say 
in  a  low  voice:  "Don't  look  now,  but  do  you  see 
that  heavy-shouldered  man  with  the  insignia,  sitting 

87 


88  GENTLE  JULIA 

with  that  adventuress  and  those  eight  officers  who 
are  really  his  guards?  Don't  be  alarmed,  Julia,  but  I 
am  here  to  get  that  man!  Perhaps  you  remember 
what  your  father  once  said  of  me?  Now,  when 
what  I  have  to  do  here  is  done,  perhaps  you  may  wish 
to  write  home  and  mention  a  few  things  to  that  old 
man!"  And  then  a  boy's  changing  voice  seemed  to 
sound  again  close  by:  "He  said  he  just  could  stand 
the  smell  of  some  cigarettes,  but  if  you  burned  any 

more  o'  yours  on  his  porch "  And  Noble 

came  back  miserably  to  town  again. 

From  an  upper  window  of  a  new  stucco  house  two 
maidens  of  nineteen  peered  down  at  him.  The  shade 
of  a  striped  awning  protected  the  window  from  the 
strong  sun  and  the  maidens  from  the  sight  of  man — 
the  latter  protection  being  especially  fortunate,  since 
they  were  preparing  to  take  a  conversational  after 
noon  nap,  were  robed  with  little  substance,  and  their 
heads  appeared  to  be  an  tiered;  for  they  caught 
sight  of  Noble  just  as  they  were  preparing  to 
put  silk-and-lace  things  they  called  "caps"  on  their 
heads. 

"Who's  that?"  the  visiting  one  asked. 

"It's  Noble  Dill;  he's  kind  of  one  of  the  crowd." 

"Is  he  nice?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  89 

"Oh,  sort  of.     Kind  of  shambles  around." 

"Looks  like  last  year's  straw  hat  to  me,"  the 
visiting  one  giggled. 

"Oh,  he  tries  to  dress — lately,  that  is — but  he 
never  did  know  how." 

"Looks  mad  about  something." 

"Yes.  He's  one  of  the  ones  in  love  with  that 
Julia  Atwater  I  told  you  about." 

"Has  he  got  any  chance  with  her?" 

"Noble  Dill?    Mercy!" 

"Is  he  much  in  love  with  her?" 

"'Much'?    Murder!" 

The  visiting  one  turned  from  the  window  and 
yawned.  "Come  on:  let's  lie  down  and  talk  about 
some  of  the  nice  ones!" 

The  second  house  beyond  this  was — it  was  the 
house  of  Julia! 

And  what  a  glamour  of  summer  light  lay  upon 
it  because  it  was  the  house  of  Julia!  The  texture  of 
the  sunshine  came  under  a  spell  here;  glowing  flakes 
of  amber  were  afloat;  a  powder  of  opals  and  rubies 
fell  silently  adrizzle  through  the  trees.  The  very 
air  changed,  beating  faintly  with  a  fairy  music,  for 
breathing  it  was  breathing  sorcery:  elfin  symphonies 
went  tinkling  through  it.  The  grass  in  the  next 


90  GENTLE  JULIA 

yard  to  Julia's  was  just  grass,  but  every  blade  of 
grass  in  her  yard  was  cut  of  jewels. 

Julia's  house  was  also  the  house  of  that  person 
who  through  some  ungovernable  horseplay  of  destiny 
happened  to  be  her  father:  and  this  gave  the  en 
chanted  spot  a  background  of  lurking  cyclone — no 
one  could  tell  at  what  instant  there  might  rise  above 
the  roseate  pleasance  a  funnel-shaped  cloud.  With 
young  Herbert's  injurious  narrative  fresh  in  his 
mind,  Noble  quickened  his  steps;  but  as  he  reached 
the  farther  fence  post,  marking  the  southward  limit 
of  Mr.  Atwater's  property,  he  halted  short,  startled 
beautifully.  Through  the  open  front  door,  just 
passed,  a  voice  had  called  his  name;  a  voice  of  such 
arresting  sweetness  that  his  breath  stopped,  like  his 
feet. 

"Oh,  Noble!"  it  called  again. 

He  turned  back,  and  any  one  who  might  have 
seen  his  face  then  would  have  known  what  was  the 
matter  with  him,  and  must  have  been  only  the  more 
sure  of  it  because  his  mouth  was  open.  The  next 
instant  the  adequate  reason  for  his  disorder  came 
lightly  through  the  open  door  and  down  to  the  gate. 

Julia  was  kind,  much  too  kind!  She  had  heard 
that  her  Aunt  Harriet  and  her  Uncle  Joe  were  fre- 


GENTLE  JULIA  91 

quently  describing  Mr.  Atwater's  most  recent  ex 
plosion  to  other  members  of  the  extensive  Atwater 
I  family  league;  and  though  she  had  not  discovered 
|  how  Aunt  Harriet  and  Uncle  Joe  had  obtained  their 
material,  yet,  in  Julia's  way  of  wording  her  thoughts, 
an  account  of  the  episode  was  "all  over  town," 
and  she  was  almost  certain  that  by  this  time  Noble 
Dill  had  heard  it.  And  so,  lest  he  should  suffer, 
the  too-gentle  creature  seized  the  first  opportunity  to 
cheer  him  up.  That  was  the  most  harmful  thing 
about  Julia;  when  anybody  liked  her — even  Noble 
Dill — she  couldn't  bear  to  have  him  worried.  She 
was  the  sympathetic  princess  who  wouldn't  have  her 
puppy's  tail  chopped  off  all  at  once,  but  only  a  little 
at  a  time. 

"I  just  happened  to  see  you  going  by,"  she  said, 
and  then,  with  an  astounding  perfection  of  serious 
ness,  she  added  the  question:  "Did  you  mind  my 
calling  to  you  and  stopping  you,  Noble?" 

He  leaned,  drooping,  upon  the  gatepost,  seeming 
to  yearn  toward  it;  his  expression  was  such  that  this 
gatepost  need  not  have  been  surprised  if  Noble  had 
knelt  to  it. 

"Why,  no,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "No,  I  don't  have 
to  be  back  at  the  office  any  particular  time.  No." 


92  GENTLE  JULIA 

"I  just  wanted  to  ask  you "  She  hesitated. 

"Well,  it  really  doesn't  amount  to  anything — it's 
nothing  so  important  I  couldn't  have  spoken  to  you 
about  it  some  other  time." 

"Well,"  said  Noble,  and  then  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  he  continued  darkly:  "There  might  not 
be  any  other  time." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Noble?" 

He  smiled  faintly.  "I'm  thinking  of  going  away." 
This  was  true;  nevertheless,  it  was  the  first  time  he 
had  thought  of  it.  "Going  away,"  he  repeated  in 
a  murmur.  "From  this  old  town." 

A  shadowy,  sweet  reproach  came  upon  Julia's 
eyes.  "You  mean — for  good,  Noble?"  she  asked  in 
a  low  voice,  although  no  one  knew  better  than  she 
what  trouble  such  performances  often  cost  her,  later. 
"Noble,  you  don't  mean " 

He  made  a  vocal  sound  conveying  recklessness, 
something  resembling  a  reckless  laugh.  "I  might 
go — any  day !  Just  as  it  happens  to  strike  me." 

"But  where  to,  Noble?" 

"I  don't Well,  maybe  to  China." 

"China!"  she  cried  in  amazement.  "Why,  Noble 
Dill!" 

"There's  lots  of  openings  in  China,"  he  said.     "A 


GENTLE  JULIA  93 

white  man  can  get  a  commission  in  the  Chinese  army 
any  day." 

"And  so,"  she  said,  "you  mean  you'd  rather  be 
an  officer  in  the  Chinese  army  than  stay — here?" 
With  that,  she  bit  her  lip  and  averted  her  face  for  an 
instant,  then  turned  to  him  again,  quite  calm.  Julia 
could  not  help  doing  these  things;  she  was  born 
that  way,  and  no  punishment  changed  her. 

"Julia — — "  the  dazzled  Noble  began,  but  he  stop 
ped  with  this  beginning,  his  voice  seeming  to  have 
exhausted  itself  upon  the  name. 

"When  do  you  think  you'll  start?"  she  asked. 

His  voice  returned.  "I  don't  know  just  when," 
he  said;  and  he  began  to  feel  a  little  too  much  com 
mitted  to  this  sudden  plan  of  departure,  and  to 
wonder  how  it  had  come  about.  "I — I  haven't  set 
any  day — exactly." 

"Have  you  talked  it  over  with  your  mother  yet, 
Noble?" 

"Not  yet — exactly,"  he  said,  and  was  conscious 
of  a  distaste  for  China  as  something  unpleasant 
and  imminent.  "I  thought  I'd  wait  till — till  it  was 
certain  I  would  go." 

"When  will  that  be,  Noble?"  And  in  spite  of 
herself,  Julia  spoke  in  the  tone  of  one  who  controls 


94  GENTLE  JULIA 

herself  to  ask  in  calmness:  "Is  my  name  on  the  list 
for  the  guillotine?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it'll  be  as  soon  as  I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  go.  I  probably  won't  go  before  then; 
not  till  I've  made  up  my  mind  to." 

"But  you  might  do  that  any  day,  mightn't  you?" 

Noble  began  to  feel  relieved;  he  seemed  to  have  hit 
upon  a  way  out.  "Yes;  and  then  I'd  be  gone,"  he 
said  firmly.  "But  probably  I  wouldn't  go  at  all 
unless  I  decided  to."  This  seemed  to  save  him  from 
China,  and  he  added  recklessly:  "I  guess  I  wouldn't 
be  missed  much  around  this  old  town  if  I  did  go." 

"Yes,  you  would,"  Julia  said  quickly.  "Your 
family'd  miss  you — and  so  would  everybody." 

"Julia,  you  wouldn't " 

She  laughed  lightly.  "Of  course  I  should,  and  so 
would  papa." 

Noble  released  the  gatepost  and  appeared  to  slant 
backward.  "What?" 

"Papa  was  talking  about  you  this  very  morning  at 
breakfast,"  she  said;  and  she  spoke  the  truth.  "He 
said  he  dreamed  about  you  last  night." 

"He  did?" 

Julia  nodded  sunnily.  "He  dreamed  that  you  and 
he  were  the  very  greatest  friends!"  This  also  was 


GENTLE  JULIA  95 

true,  so  far  as  it  went;  she  only  omitted  to  state  that 
Mr.  Atwater  had  gone  on  to  classify  his  dream  as  a 
•nightmare.  "There!"  she  cried.  "Why,  of  course 
he'd  miss  you — he'd  miss  you  as  much  as  he'd  miss 
any  friend  of  mine  that  comes  here." 

Noble  felt  a  sudden  rush  of  tenderness  toward 
Mr.  Atwater;  it  is  always  possible  to  misjudge  a  man 
for  a  few  hasty  words.  And  Julia  went  on  quickly: 

"I  never  saw  anybody  like  you,  Noble  Dill!"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  don't  suppose  there's  anybody  in 
the  United  States  except  you  that  would  be  capable 
of  doing  things  like  going  off  to  be  an  officer  in  the 
Chinese  army — all  just  any  minute  like  this.  I've 
always  declared  you  were  about  the  most  reckless 
man  I  know!" 

Noble  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said  judicially. 
"I'm  not  reckless;  it's  just  that  I  don't  care  what 
happens." 

Julia  became  grave.     "Don't  you?" 

"To  me,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  mean  I  don't 
care  what  happens  to  myself.  I  mean  that's  more 
the  way  I  am  than  just  reckless." 

She  was  content  to  let  his  analysis  stand,  though 
she  shook  her  head,  as  if  knowing  herself  to  be  wiser 
than  he  about  his  recklessness.  A  cheerfulness  came 


96  GENTLE  JULIA 

upon  them;  and  the  Chinese  question  seemed  to 
have  been  settled  by  these  indirect  processes; — in 
fact,  neither  of  them  ever  mentioned  it  again.  "I 
mustn't  keep  you,"  she  said,  "especially  when  you 

ought  to  be  getting  on  downtown  to  business,  but 

Oh!"  She  gave  the  little  cry  of  a  forgetful  person 
reminded.  "I  almost  forgot  what  I  ran  out  to  ask 
you!" 

"What  was  it,  Julia?"  Noble  spoke  huskily,  in  a 
low  voice.  "What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do,  Julia?" 

She  gave  a  little  fluttering  laugh,  half  timid,  half 
confiding.  "You  know  how  funny  papa  is  about 
tobacco  smoke?"  (But  she  hurried  on  without 
waiting  for  an  answer.)  "Well,  he  is.  He's  the 
funniest  old  thing;  he  doesn't  like  any  kind  very 
much  except  his  own  special  cheroot  things.  He 
growls  about  every  other  kind,  but  the  cigars  Mr. 
Ridgely  smokes  when  he  comes  here,  papa  really 
does  make  a  fuss  over!  And,  you  see,  I  don't  like  to 
say  *No'  when  Mr.  Ridgely  asks  if  he  can  smoke,  be 
cause  it  always  makes  men  so  uncomfortable  if 
they  can't  when  they're  sitting  on  a  veranda,  so  I 
wondered  if  I  could  just  tactfully  get  him  to  buy 
something  different  from  his  cigars? — and  I  thought 
the  best  thing  would  be  to  suggest  those  cigarettes 


GENTLE  JULIA  97 

you  always  have,  Noble.  They're  the  ones  papa 
makes  the  least  fuss  about  and  seems  to  stand  the 
best — next  to  his  own,  he  seems  to  like  them  the  most, 
I  mean — but  I'd  forgotten  the  name  of  them.  That  s 
what  I  ran  out  to  ask  you." 

"Orduma,"  said  Noble.  "Orduma  Egyptian  Ciga 
rettes." 

"Would  you  mind  giving  me  one — just  to  show 
Mr.  Ridgely?" 

Noble  gave  her  an  Orduma  cigarette. 

" Oh,  thank  you ! "  she  said  gratefully.  "I  mustn't 
keep  you  another  minute,  because  I  know  your 
father  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  at  the  office  without 
you!  Thank  you  so  much  for  this!"  She  turned 
and  walked  quickly  halfway  up  the  path,  then 
paused,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder.  "I'll  only 
show  it  to  him,  Noble,"  she  said.  "I  won't  give  it 
to  him!" 

She  bit  her  lip  as  if  she  had  said  more  than  she 
should  have;  shook  her  head  as  in  self -chiding; 
then  laughed,  and  in  a  flash  touched  the  tiny  white 
cylinder  to  her  lips,  waved  it  to  him; — then  ran  to 
the  veranda  and  up  the  steps  and  into  the  house. 
She  felt  satisfied  that  she  had  set  matters  right,  this 
kind  Julia! 


I   ^~^*<_VL^    *--r7\ 

-   PodUta 
b 


CHAPTER  SIX 

BEFORE  she  thus  set  matters  right  with 
Noble  he  had  been  unhappy  and  his  condi 
tion  had  been  bad;  now  he  was  happy,  but 
his  condition  was  worse.  In  truth,  he  was  much, 
much  too  happy;  nothing  rational  remained  in  his 
mind.  No  elfin  orchestra  seemed  to  buzz  in  his  ears 
as  he  went  down  the  street,  but  a  loud,  triumphing 
brass  band.  His  unathletic  chest  was  inflated;  he 
heaved  up  with  joy;  and  a  little  child,  playing  on  the 
next  corner,  turned  and  followed  him  for  some  dis 
tance,  trying  to  imitate  his  proud,  singular  walk. 
Restored  to  too  much  pride,  Noble  became  also 
much  too  humane;  he  thought  of  Mr.  Atwater's 
dream,  and  felt  almost  a  motherly  need  to  cherish 
and  protect  him,  to  be  indeed  his  friend.  There  was 
a  warm  spot  in  Noble's  chest,  produced  in  part  by  a 
yearning  toward  that  splendid  old  man.  Noble 
had  a  good  home,  sixty-six  dollars  in  the  bank  and  a 
dollar  and  forty  cents  in  his  pockets;  he  would  have 
given  all  for  a  chance  to  show  Mr.  At  water  how  well 

98 


GENTLE  JULIA  99 

he  understood  him  now,  at  last,  and  how  deeply  he 
appreciated  his  favour. 

Students  of  alcoholic  intoxication  have  observed 
that  in  their  cups  commonplace  people,  and  not 
geniuses,  do  the  most  unusual  things.  So  with 
all  other  intoxications.  Noble  Dill  was  indeed  no 
genius,  and  some  friend  should  have  kept  an 
eye  upon  him  to-day;  he  was  not  himself.  All 
afternoon  in  a  mood  of  tropic  sunrise  he  collected 
rents,  or  with  glad  vagueness  consented  instantly 
to  their  postponement.  "I've  come  about  the  rent 
again,"  he  said  beamingly  to  one  delinquent  tenant 
of  his  father's  best  client;  and  turned  and  walked 
away,  humming  a  waltz-song,  while  the  man  was 
still  coughing  as  a  preliminary  to  argument. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  as  the  entranced  collector 
sat  musing  alone  near  a  window  in  his  father's  office, 
his  exalted  mood  was  not  affected  by  the  fall 
ing  of  a  preternatural  darkness  over  the  town,  nor 
was  he  roused  to  action  by  any  perception  of  the 
fact  that  the  other  clerks  and  the  members  of  the 
firm  had  gone  home  an  hour  ago;  that  the  clock 
showed  him  his  own  duty  to  lock  up  the  office  and 
not  keep  his  mother  "waiting  dinner";  and  that  he 
would  be  caught  in  a  most  outrageous  thunderstorm  if 


100  GENTLE  JULIA 

he  didn't  hurry.  No;  he  sat,  smiling,  fondly  by  the 
open  window,  and  at  times  made  a  fragmentary 
gesture  as  of  some  heroic  or  benevolent  impulse  in 
rehearsal. 

Meanwhile,  paunchy  with  wind  and  wetness,  un 
mannerly  clouds  came  smoking  out  of  the  blackened 
west.  Rumbling,  they  drew  on.  Then  from  cloud 
to  cloud  dizzy  amazements  of  white  fire  staggered, 
crackled  and  boomed  on  to  the  assault;  the  doors  of 
the  winds  were  opened;  the  tanks  of  deluge  were 
unbottomed;  and  the  storm  took  the  town.  So, 
presently,  Noble  noticed  that  it  was  raining  and  de 
cided  to  go  home. 

With  an  idea  that  he  was  fulfilling  his  customary 
duties,  he  locked  the  doors  of  the  two  inner  rooms, 
dropped  the  keys  gently  into  a  wastebasket,  and 
passing  by  an  umbrella  which  stood  in  a  corner, 
went  out  to  the  corridor,  and  thence  stepped  into 
the  street  of  whooping  rain. 

Here  he  became  so  practical  as  to  turn  up  his  col 
lar;  and,  substantially  aided  by  the  wind  at  his 
back,  he  was  not  long  in  leaving  the  purlieus  of  com 
merce  behind  him  for  Julia's  Street.  Other  people 
lived  on  this  street — he  did,  himself,  for  that  matter; 
and,  in  fact,  it  was  the  longest  street  in  the  town; 


GENTLE  JITLIA  101 

moreover,  it  had  an  official  name-  with  'which  ^he 
word  "Julia"  was  entirely  unconnected;  but  for 
Noble  Dill  (and  probably  for  Newland  Sanders  and 
for  some  others  in  age  from  nineteen  to  sixty)  it  was 
"Julia's  Street"  and  no  other. 

It  was  a  tumultuous  street  as  Noble  splashed  along 
the  sidewalk.  Incredibly  elastic,  the  shade-trees 
were  practising  calisthenics,  though  now  and  then 
one  outdid  itself  and  lost  a  branch;  thunder  and 
lightning  romped  like  loosed  scandal;  rain  hissed 
upon  the  pavement  and  capered  ankle-high.  It 
was  a  storm  that  asked  to  be  left  to  itself  for  a  time, 
after  giving  fair  warning  that  the  request  would  be 
made;  and  Noble  and  the  only  other  pedestrian  in 
sight  had  themselves  to  blame  for  getting  caught. 

This  other  pedestrian  was  some  forty  or  fifty 
yards  in  advance  of  Noble  and  moved  in  the  same 
direction  at  about  the  same  gait.  He  wore  an 
old  overcoat,  running  with  water;  the  brim  of  his 
straw  hat  sagged  about  his  head,  so  that  he  appeared 
to  be  wearing  a  bucket;  he  was  a  sodden  and  pathetic 
figure.  Noble  himself  was  as  sodden;  his  hands  were 
wet  in  his  very  pockets;  his  elbows  seemed  to  spout; 
yet  he  spared  a  generous  pity  for  the  desolate  figure 
struggling  on  before  him. 


102  G£NTLE  JULIA 

All  at  once.  Noble's  heart  did  something  queer 
within  his  wet  bosom.  He  recognized  that  figure, 
and  he  was  not  mistaken.  Except  the  One  figure, 
and  those  of  his  own  father  and  mother  and  three 
sisters,  this  was  the  shape  that  Noble  would  most 
infallibly  recognize  anywhere  in  the  world  and  under 
any  conditions.  In  spite  of  the  dusk  and  the  riot 
of  the  storm,  Noble  knew  that  none  other  than 
Mr.  Atwater  splashed  before  him. 

He  dismissed  a  project  for  seizing  upon  a  fallen 
branch  and  running  forward  to  walk  beside  Mr. 
Atwater  and  hold  the  branch  over  his  venerated 
head.  All  the  branches  were  too  wet;  and  Noble 
feared  that  Mr.  Atwater  might  think  the  picture  odd 
and  decline  to  be  thus  protected.  Yet  he  felt 
that  something  ought  to  be  done  to  shelter  Julia's 
father  and  perhaps  save  him  from  pneumonia; 
surely  there  was  some  simple,  helpful,  dashing  thing 
that  ordinary  people  couldn't  think  of,  but  that 
Noble  could.  He  would  do  it  and  not  stay  to  be 
thanked.  And  then,  to-morrow  evening,  not  sooner, 
he  would  go  to  Julia  and  smile  and  say;  "Your 
father  didn't  get  too  wet,  I  hope,  after  all?"  And 
Julia:  "Oh,  Noble,  he's  talked  of  you  all  day  long 
as  his  'new  Sir  Walter  Raleigh'!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  103 

Suddenly  will-o'-the-wisp  opportunity  flickered 
before  him,  and  in  his  high  mood  he  paused  not  at  all 
to  consider  it,  but  insanely  chased  it.  He  had  just 
reached  a  crossing,  and  down  the  cross  street,  walking 
away  from  Noble,  was  the  dim  figure  of  a  man  carry 
ing  an  umbrella.  It  was  just  perceptible  that  he  was 
a  fat  man,  struggling  with  seeming  feebleness  in  the 
wind  and  making  poor  progress.  Mr.  Atwater, 
moving  up  Julia's  Street,  was  out  of  sight  from  the 
cross  street  where  struggled  the  fat  man. 

Noble  ran  swiftly  down  the  cross  street,  jerked 
the  umbrella  from  the  fat  man's  grasp;  ran  back, 
with  hoarse  sounds  dying  out  behind  him  in  the  riot 
ous  dusk;  turned  the  corner,  sped  after  Mr.  At 
water,  overtook  him,  and  thrust  the  umbrella  upon 
him.  Then,  not  pausing  the  shortest  instant  for 
thanks  or  even  recognition,  the  impulsive  boy  sped 
onward,  proud  and  joyous  in  the  storm,  leaving  his 
beneficiary  far  behind  him. 

In  his  young  enthusiasm  he  had  indeed  done 
something  for  Mr.  Atwater.  In  fact,  Noble's  kind 
ness  had  done  as  much  for  Mr.  Atwater  as  Julia's 
gentleness  had  done  for  Noble,  but  how  much  both 
Julia  and  Noble  had  done  was  not  revealed  in  full 
until  the  next  evening. 
\ 


104  GENTLE  JULIA 

That  was  a  warm  and  moonshiny  night  of  air 
unusually  dry,  and  yet  Florence  sneezed  frequently 
as  she  sat  upon  the  "side  porch"  at  the  house  of  her 
Great-Aunt  Carrie  and  her  Great-Uncle  Joseph. 
Florence  had  a  cold  in  the  head,  though  how  it  got  to 
her  head  was  a  process  involved  in  the  mysterious 
ways  of  colds,  since  Florence's  was  easily  to  be 
connected  with  Herbert's  remark  that  he  wouldn't 
ever  be  caught  takin'  his  death  o'  cold  sittin'  on  the 
damp  grass  in  the  night  air  just  to  listen  to  a  lot  o' 
tooty-tooty.  It  appeared  from  Florence's  narrative 
to  those  interested  listeners,  Aunt  Carrie  and  Uncle 
Joseph,  that  she  had  been  sitting  on  the  grass  in  the 
night  air  when  both  air  and  grass  were  extraordinarily 
damp.  In  brief,  she  had  been  at  her  post  soon  after 
the  storm  cleared  on  the  preceding  evening,  but  she 
had  heard  no  tooty-tooty;  her  overhearings  were  of 
sterner  stuff. 

"Well,  what  did  Julia  say  then?"  Aunt  Carrie 
asked  eagerly. 

"She  said  she'd  go  up  and  lock  herself  in  her  room 
and  stuff  cushions  over  her  ears  if  grandpa  didn't  quit 
makin'  such  a  fuss." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  made  more  rumpus  than  ever,"  said  Florence. 


GENTLE  JULIA  105 

"He  went  on  and  on,  and  told  the  whole  thing  over 
and  over  again;  he  seemed  like  he  couldn't  tell  it 
enough,  and  every  time  he  told  it  his  voice  got  higher 
and  higher  till  it  was  kind  of  squealy.  He  said  he'd 
had  his  raincoat  on  and  he  didn't  want  an  umberella 
anyhow,  and  hadn't  ever  carried  one  a  single  time  in 
fourteen  years!  And  he  took  on  about  Noble  Dill 
and  all  this  and  that  about  how  you  bet  he  knew  who 
it  was!  He  said  he  could  tell  Noble  Dill  in  the  dark 
any  time  by  his  cigarette  smell,  and,  anyway,  it 
wasn't  too  dark  so's  he  couldn't  see  his  skimpy  little 
shoulders,  and  anyway  he  saw  his  face.  And  he  said 
Noble  didn't  hand  him  the  umberella;  he  stuck  it  all 
down  over  him  like  he  was  somep'n  on  fire  he  wanted 
to  put  out;  and  before  he  could  get  out  of  it  and 
throw  it  away  this  ole  fat  man  that  it  belonged  to 
and  was  chasin'  Noble,  he  ran  up  to  grandpa  from 
behind  and  took  hold  of  him,  or  somep'n,  and  they 
slipped,  and  got  to  fussin'  against  each  other;  and 
then  after  a  while  they  got  up  and  grandpa  saw  it 
was  somebody  he  knew  and  told  him  for  Heaven's 
sake  why  didn't  he  take  his  ole  umberella  and  go  on 
home;  and  so  he  did,  because  it  was  raining,  and  I 
guess  he  proba'ly  had  to  give  up;  he  couldn't  out-talk 
grandpa." 


106  GENTLE  JULIA 

"No,"  said  Uncle  Joe.  "He  couldn't,  whoever 
he  was.  But  what  happened  about  Noble  Dill?" 

Florence  paused  to  accumulate  and  explode  a 
sneeze,  then  responded  pleasantly:  "He  said  he  was 
goin'  to  kill  him.  He  said  he  often  and  often  wanted 
to,  and  now  he  was.  That's  the  reason  I  guess  Aunt 
Julia  wrote  that  note  this  morning." 

"What  note?"  Aunt  Carrie  inquired.  "You 
haven't  told  us  of  that." 

"I  was  over  there  before  noon,"  said  Florence, 
"and  Aunt  Julia  gave  me  a  quarter  and  said  she'd 
write  a  note  for  me  to  take  to  Noble  Dill's  house 
when  he  came  home  for  lunch,  and  give  it  to  him. 
She  kind  of  slipped  it  to  me,  because  grandpa  came  in 
there,  pokin'  around,  while  she  was  just  finishin'  writin' 
it.  She  didn't  put  any  envelope  on  it  even,  and  she 
never  said  a  single  thing  to  me  about  its  bein'  private 
or  my  not  readin'  it  if  I  wanted  to,  or  anything." 

"Of  course  you  didn't,"  said  Aunt  Carrie.  "You 
didn't,  did  you,  Florence?" 

"Why,  she  didn't  say  not  to,"  Florence  protested, 
surprised.  "It  wasn't  even  in  an  envelope." 

Mr.  Joseph  Atwater  coughed.  "I  hardly  think 
we  ought  to  ask  what  the  note  said,  even  if  Florence 
was — well,  indiscreet  enough  to  read  it." 


GENTLE  JULIA  107 

"No,"  said  his  wife,  "I  hardly  think  so  either. 
It  didn't  say  anything  important  anyhow,  probably." 

"It  began,  'Dear  Noble,'"  said  Florence  promptly. 
"Dear  Noble' ;  that's  the  way  it  began.  It  said  how 
grandpa  was  just  all  upset  to  think  he'd  accepted 
an  umberella  from  him  when  Noble  didn't  have 
another  one  for  himself  like  that,  and  grandpa  was  so 
embarrassed  to  think  he'd  let  Noble  do  so  much  for 
him,  and  everything,  he  just  didn't  know  what  to  do, 
and  proba'ly  it  would  be  tactful  if  he  wouldn't  come 
to  the  house  till  grandpa  got  over  being  embarrassed 
and  everything.  She  said  not  to  come  till  she  let  him 
know." 

"Did  you  notice  Noble  when  he  read  it?"  asked 
Aunt  Carrie. 

"  Yessir !  And  would  you  believe  it ;  he  just  looked 
too  happy!"  Florence  made  answer,  not  wholly  com 
prehending  with  what  truth. 

"I'll  bet,"  said  Uncle  Joseph;— "I'll  bet  a  thousand 
dollars  that  if  Julia  told  Noble  Dill  he  was  six  feet 
tall,  Noble  would  go  and  order  his  next  suit  of  clothes 
to  fit  a  six-foot  man." 

And  his  wife  complemented  this  with  a  generaliza 
tion,  simple,  yet  of  a  significance  too  little  recognized. 
"They  don't  see  a  thing!"  she  said.  "The  young 


108  GENTLE  JULIA 

men  that  buzz  around  a  girl's  house  don't  see  a  thing 
of  what  goes  on  there !     Inside,  I  mean." 

Yet  at  that  very  moment  a  young  man  was  seeing 
something  inside  a  girl's  house  a  little  way  down  that 
same  street.  That  same  street  was  Julia's  Street 
and  the  house  was  Julia's.  Inside  the  house,  in  the 
library,  sat  Mr.  At  water,  trying  to  read  a  work  by 
Thomas  Carlyle,  while  a  rhythmic  murmur  came 
annoyingly  from  the  veranda.  The  young  man, 
watching  him  attentively,  saw  him  lift  his  head  and 
sniff  the  air  with  suspicion,  but  the  watcher  took  this 
pantomime  to  be  an  expression  of  distaste  for  certain 
versifyings,  and  sharing  that  distaste,  approved. 
Mr.  Atwater  sniffed  again,  threw  down  his  book  and 
strode  out  to  the  veranda.  There  sat  dark-haired 
Julia  in  a  silver  dress,  and  near  by,  Newland  Sanders 
read  a  long  young  poem  from  the  manuscript. 

"Who  is  smoking  out  here?  "  Mr.  Atwater  inquired 
in  a  dead  voice. 

"Nobody,  sir,"  said  Newland  with  eagerness.  "/ 
don't  smoke.  I  have  never  touched  tobacco  in  any 
form  in  my  life." 

Mr.  Atwater  sniffed  once  more,  found  purity,  and 
returned  to  the  library.  But  here  the  air  seemed 
faintly  impregnated  with  Orduma  cigarettes.  "Curi- 


GENTLE  JULIA  109 

cms! "he  said  as  he  composed  himself  once  more  to 
read — and  presently  the  odour  seemed  to  wear  away 
and  vanish.  Mr.  Atwater  was  relieved;  the  last  thing 
he  could  have  wished  was  to  be  haunted  by  Noble 
Dill. 

Yet  for  that  while  he  was.  Too  honourable  to  fol 
low  such  an  example  as  Florence's,  Noble,  of  course, 
would  not  spy  or  eavesdrop  near  the  veranda  where 
Julia  sat,  but  he  thought  there  could  be  no  harm 
in  watching  Mr.  Atwater  read.  Looking  at  Mr. 
Atwater  was  at  least  the  next  thing  to  looking  at 
Julia.  And  so,  out  in  the  night,  Noble  was  seated 
upon  the  top  of  the  side  fence,  looking  through  the 
library  window  at  Mr.  Atwater. 

After  a  while  Noble  lit  another  Orduma  cigarette 
and  puffed  strongly  to  start  it.  The  smoke  was 
almost  invisible  in  the  moonlight,  but  the  night 
breeze,  stirring  gently,  wafted  it  toward  the  house, 
where  the  open  window  made  an  inward  draft  and 
carried  it  heartily  about  the  library. 

Noble  was  surprised  to  see  Mr.  Atwater  rise  sud 
denly  to  his  feet.  He  smote  his  brow,  put  out  the 
light,  and  stamped  upstairs  to  his  own  room. 

His  purpose  to  retire  was  understood  when  the 
watcher  saw  a  light  in  the  bedroom  window  over- 


110  GENTLE  JULIA 

head.  Noble  thought  of  the  good,  peculiar  old  man 
now  disrobing  there,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  at  a 
whimsical  thought:  What  form  would  Mr.  Atwater's 
embarrassment  take,  what  would  be  his  feeling,  and 
what  would  he  do,  if  he  knew  that  Noble  was  there 
now,  beneath  his  window  and  thinking  of  him? 

In  the  moonlight  Noble  sat  upon  the  fence,  and 
smoked  Orduma  cigarettes,  and  looked  up  with 
affection  at  the  bright  window  of  Mr.  Atwater's 
bedchamber.  Abruptly  the  light  in  that  window 
went  out. 

"Saying  his  prayers  now,"  said  Noble.  "I  wonder 

if "  But,  not  to  be  vain,  he  laughed  at  himself 

and  left  the  thought  unfinished. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

A  WEEK  later,  on  a  hot  July  afternoon,  Miss 
Florence  Atwater,  recovered  from  her  cold, 
stood  in  the  shady  back  yard  of  her  place  of 
residence  and  yawned  more  extensively  than  any  one 
would  have  believed  possible,  judging  by  her  face  in 
repose.  Three  of  her  friends,  congenial  in  age  and 
sex,  were  out  of  town  for  the  summer;  two  had  been 
ascertained,  by  telephonic  inquiries,  to  be  taking 
commanded  siestas;  and  neither  the  other  one  nor 
Florence  had  yet  forgotten  that  yesterday,  although 
they  were  too  religious  to  commit  themselves  to  a 
refusal  to  meet  as  sisters  in  the  Great  Beyond,  they 
had  taken  the  expurgated  oath  that  by  Everything 
they  would  never  speak  to  each  other  again  so  long 
as  they  both  should  live. 

Florence  was  at  the  end  of  her  resources.  She 
had  sought  distraction  in  experimental  cookery;  but, 
having  scorched  a  finger,  and  having  been  told  by 
the  cook  that  a  person's  own  kitchen  wasn't  worth 

the  price  at  eleven  dollars  a  week  if  it  had  to  git  all 

ill 


GENTLE  JULIA 

smelled  up  with  broiled  rubber  when  the  femometer 
stood  at  ninety-sewum  degrees  in  the  shade,  the 
experimenter  abusedly  turned  her  back  on  the  morose 
woman  and  went  out  to  the  back  yard  for  a  little 
peace. 

After  an  interval  of  torpor,  she  decided  to  go  and 
see  what  Herbert  was  doing — a  move  not  short  of 
desperation,  on  account  of  Herbert's  new  manner 
toward  her.  For  a  week  Herbert  had  steadily  pur 
sued  his  scientific  career,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  that 
in  it  he  had  attained  a  distinction  beyond  the  reach 
of  Florence.  What  made  it  ridiculous  for  her  to  hope 
was,  of  course,  the  fact  that  she  was  a  girl,  and  Her 
bert  had  explained  this  to  her  in  a  cold,  unpleasant 
way;  for  it  is  true  that  what  is  called  "feminism" 
must  be  acquired  by  men,  and  is  not  a  condition,  or 
taste,  natural  to  them.  At  thirteen  it  has  not  been 
acquired. 

She  found  him  at  home.  He  was  importantly 
engaged  in  a  room  in  the  cellar,  where  were  loosely 
stored  all  manner  of  incapacitated  household  devices; 
two  broken  clothes -wringers,  a  crippled  and  rusted 
sewing-machine,  an  ice-cream  freezer  in  like  condi 
tion,  a  cracked  and  discarded  marble  mantelpiece^ 
chipped  porcelain  and  chinaware  of  all  sorts,  rusted 


GENTLE  JULIA  113 

stove  lids  and  flatirons,  half  a  dozen  dead  mops  and 
brooms.  This  was  the  laboratory,  and  here,  in  con 
genial  solitude,  Herbert  conducted  his  investigations. 
That  is  to  say,  until  Florence  arrived  he  was  undis 
turbed  by  human  intrusion,  but  he  was  not  alone — far 
from  it!  There  was,  in  fact,  almost  too  much  life 
in  the  place. 

Where  the  light  fell  clearest  from  the  cobwebby 
windows  at  the  ground  level  overhead,  he  had  placed 
a  long  deal  table,  once  a  helpmate  in  the  kitchen,  but 
now  a  colourless  antique  on  three  legs  and  two  starch 
boxes.  Upon  the  table  were  seven  or  eight  glass  jars, 
formerly  used  for  preserves  and  pickles,  and  a  dozen 
jelly  glasses  (with  only  streaks  and  bits  of  jelly  in 
them  now)  and  five  or  six  small  round  pasteboard  pill 
boxes.  The  jars  were  covered,  some  with  their  own 
patent  tops,  others  with  shingles  or  bits  of  board, 
and  one  with  a  brick.  The  jelly  glasses  stood  in 
verted,  and  were  inhabited;  so  were  the  preserve 
jars  and  pickle  jars;  and  so  were  the  pill-boxes,  which 
evidently  contained  star  boarders,  for  they  were 
pierced  with  "breathing  holes,"  and  one  of  them, 
standing  upon  its  side  like  a  little  wheel,  now  and 
then  moved  in  a  faint,  ghostly  manner  as  if  about  to 
start  rolling  on  its  own  account — whereupon  Herbert 


114  GENTLE  JULIA 

glanced  up  and  addressed  it  sternly,  though  some 
what  inconsistently:  "You  shut  up!" 

In  the  display  of  so  much  experimental  para 
phernalia,  there  may  have  been  a  hint  that  Herbert's 
was  a  scientific  nature  craving  rather  quantity  than 
quality;  his  collection  certainly  possessed  the  virtue 
of  multitudinousness,if  that  be  a  virtue; and  the  birds 
in  the  neighbourhood  must  have  been  undergoing 
a  great  deal  of  disappointment.  In  brief,  as  many 
bugs  as  Herbert  now  owned  have  seldom  been  seen 
in  the  custody  of  any  private  individual.  And 
nearly  all  of  them  were  alive,  energetic  and  swearing, 
though  several  of  the  preserve  jars  had  been  imper 
fectly  drained  of  their  heavy  syrups,  and  in  one  of 
them  a  great  many  spiders  seemed  to  be  having, 
of  the  whole  collection,  the  poorest  time;  being  pretty 
well  mired  down  and  yet  still  subject  to  disagree 
ments  among  themselves.  The  habits  of  this  group, 
under  such  unusual  surroundings,  formed  the  subject 
of  Herbert's  special  study  at  the  moment  of  Flor 
ence's  arrival.  He  was  seated  at  the  table  and 
frowning  with  science  as  he  observed  the  unfortu 
nates  through  that  magnifying-glass,  his  discovery 
of  which  was  responsible  for  their  present  condition 
and  his  own  choice  of  a  career. 


GENTLE  JULIA  115 

Florence  paused  in  the  doorway,  but  he  gave  no 
sign  of  recognition,  unless  his  intensified  preoccu 
pation  was  a  sign,  and  Florence,  perceiving  what 
line  of  conduct  he  meant  to  adopt,  instinctively 
selected  a  reciprocal  one  for  herself.  "Herbert 
At  water,  you  ought  to  be  punished!  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  your  father  and  mother." 

"You  g'way,"  Herbert  returned,  unmoved;  and, 
without  condescending  to  give  her  a  glance,  he  set 
down  the  magnifying-glass,  and  with  a  pencil  wrote 
something  profoundly  entomological  in  a  soiled 
memorandum  book  upon  the  table.  "Run  away, 
Flor'nce.  Run  away  somewheres  and  play." 

Florence  approached.  "  Tlay' ! "  she  echoed  tartly. 
"I  should  think  you  wouldn't  talk  much  about 
'playin','  the  way  you're  teasing  those  poor,  poor 
little  bugs!" 

"'Teasing'!"  Herbert  exclaimed.  "That  shows! 
That  shows!" 

"Shows  what?" 

"How  much  you  know!"  He  became  despondent 
about  her.  "See  here,  Florence;  it  does  look  to 
me  as  though  at  your  age  a  person  ought  to  know 
anyway  enough  not  to  disturb  me  when  I'm  expaira- 
menting,  and  everything.  I  should  think " 


116  GENTLE  JULIA 

But  she  did  not  prove  so  meek  as  to  await  the  con 
clusion  of  his  remonstrance.  "I  never  saw  any 
thing  as  wicked  in  my  whole  born  days!  What  did 
any  of  those  poor,  poor  little  bugs  ever  do  to  you, 
I'd  like  to  know,  you  got  to  go  and  confine  'em  like 
this !  And  look  how  dirty  your  hands  are ! " 

This  final  charge,  wandering  so  far  from  her  previ 
ous  specifications  of  his  guilt,  was  purely  automatic 
and  conventional;  Florence  often  interjected  it  dur 
ing  the  course  of  any  cousinly  discussion,  whatever 
the  subject  in  dispute,  and  she  had  not  even  glanced 
at  Herbert's  hands  to  assure  herself  that  the  accusa 
tion  was  warranted.  But,  as  usual,  the  facts  sup 
ported  her;  and  they  also  supported  Herbert  in  his 
immediate  mechanical  retort:  "So're  yours!" 

"Not  either!"  But  here  Florence,  after  instinc 
tively  placing  her  hands  behind  her,  brought  forth 
the  right  one  to  point,  and  simultaneously  uttered  a 
loud  cry:  "Oh,  look  at  your  hands!"  For  now  she 
did  look  at  Herbert's  hands,  and  was  amazed. 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"They're  all  lumpy!"  she  cried,  and,  as  her  gaze 
rose  to  his  cheek,  her  finger  followed  her  eyes  and 
pointed  to  strange  appearances  there.  "Look  at 
your  face!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  117 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  lie  demanded,  his  tone  not 
entirely  free  from  braggadocio.  "A  girl  can't  make 
expairaments  the  way  I  do,  because  if  one  of  these 
good  ole  bumblebees  or  hornets  of  mine  was  to  give 
'em  a  little  sting,  once  in  a  while,  while  they  was 
catchin'  'em  and  puttin'  'em  in  a  jar,  all  they'd  know 
how  to  do'd  be  to  holler  and  run  home  to  their 
mamma.  Nobody  with  any  gumption  minds  a  few 
little  stings  after  you  put  mud  on  'em." 

"I  guess  it  serves  you  right,"  Florence  said,  "for 
persecutin'  these  poor,  poor  little  bugs." 

Herbert  became  plaintive.  "Look  here,  Florence; 
I  do  wish  you'd  go  on  back  home  where  you  be 
long." 

But  Florence  did  not  reply;  instead  she  picked 
up  the  magnifying-glass,  and,  gazing  through  it  at 
a  pickle  jar  of  mixed  beetles,  caterpillars,  angle 
worms,  and  potato  bugs,  permitted  herself  to  shud 
der.  "  Vile  things ! "  she  said. 

"They  are  not,  either!"  Herbert  retorted  hotly. 
"They're  about  the  finest  insecks  that  you  or  anybody 
else  ever  saw,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed " 

"I  ought?"  his  cousin  cried.  "Well,  I  should 
think  you're  the  one  ought  to  be  ashamed,  if  any 
body  ought !  Down  here  in  the  cellar  playin'  with  all 


118  GENTLE  JULIA 

these  vile  bugs  that  ought  to  be  given  their  liberty,  or 
thrown  down  the  sewer,  or  somep'n!"  Again,  as  she 
peere  d  through  the  lens ,  she  shuddered .  "  Vile ' ' 

"Florence,"  he  said  sternly,  "you  lay  down  that 
magnif  ying-glass . " 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  don't  know  how  to  handle  it.  A 
magnif  ying-glass  has  got  to  be  handled  in  just  the 
right  way,  and  you  couldn't  learn  if  you  tried  a 
thousand  years.  That's  a  mighty  fine  magnif  ying- 
glass,  and  I  don't  intend  to  have  it  ruined." 

"Why,  just  lookin'  through  it  can't  spoil  it,  can 
it?"  she  inquired,  surprised. 

"You  lay  it  down,"  said  Herbert  darkly.  "Look- 
in*  through  it  the  wrong  way  isn't  going  to  do  it  any 
good." 

"Why,  how  could  just  lookin9  through  it " 

"Lookin'  through  it  the  wrong  way  isn't  goin' 
to  help  it  any,  I  tell  you!"  he  insisted.  "Your 're 
old  enough  to  know  that,  and  I'm  not  goin'  to  have 
my  magnifying-glass  spoiled  and  all  my  insecks 
wasted  just  because  of  a  mere  whin  of  yours!" 

"A  what?" 

"A  mere  whin,  I  said!" 

"What's  a  whin?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  119 

"Never  you  mind,"  said  Herbert  ominously. 
"You'll  proba'ly  find  out  some  day  when  you  aren't 
expectin' to!" 

Undeniably,  Florence  was  somewhat  impressed: 
she  replaced  the  magnifying-glass  upon  the  table  and 
picked  up  the  notebook. 

"You  lay  that  down,  too,"  said  Herbert  instantly. 

"Oh,  maybe  it's  somep'n  you're  'shamed  to " 

"Go  on  and  read  it,  then,"  he  said,  suddenly 
changing  his  mind,  for  he  was  confident  that  she 
would  find  matter  here  that  might  cause  her  to  ap 
preciate  at  least  a  little  of  her  own  inferiority. 

"  'Nots',"  Florence  began.     "  'Nots' " 

"Notes!"  he  corrected  her  fiercely. 

"'Notes',"  she  read.  "'Notes  on  our  inseck 
friends.  The  spidder ' " 

"Spider!" 

"'The  spider  spends  his  time  mostly  in  cobwebs 
which  he  digilently  spins  between  posts  and  catches 
flies  to  eat  them.  They  are  different  coloured  and 
sizes  and  have  legs  in  pairs.  Spiders  also  spin  their 
webs  in  corners  or  in  weeds  or  on  a  fence  and  some 
times  in  the  grass.  They  are  more  able  to  get  about 
quicker  than  catapillars  or  fishing  worms,  but  cannot 
fly  such  as  pinching  bugs,  lightning  bugs,  and  birds 


120  GENTLE  JULIA 

because  having  no  wings,  nor  jump  as  far  as  the  grass 
hoper '" 

"  Grasshopper ! "  Herbert  shouted. 

"I'm  readin'  it  the  way  it's  spelled,"  Florence  ex 
plained.  "Anyway,  it  don't  make  much  sense." 

Herbert  was  at  least  enough  of  an  author  to  be 
furious.  "Lay  it  down!"  he  said  bitterly.  "And  go 
on  back  home  to  your  dolls." 

"Dolls  certainly  would  be  cleaner  than  vile  bugs," 
Florence  retorted,  tossing  the  book  upon  the  table. 
"But  in  regards  to  that,  I  haven't  had  any,"  she 
went  on,  airily — "not  for  years  and  years  and  years 
and " 

He  interrupted  her,  his  voice  again  plaintive. 
"See  here,  Florence,  how  do  you  expect  me  to  get 
my  work  done,  with  you  everlastin'ly  talkin'  and 
goin*  on  around  here  like  this?  Can't  you  see  I've 
got  somep'n  pretty  important  on  my  hands?" 

Florence  became  thoughtful.  "I  never  did  see 
as  many  bugs  before,  all  together  this  way,"  she  said. 
"What  you  goin'  to  do  with  'em,  Herbert?" 

"I'm  makin'  my  expairaments." 

But  her  thoughtfulness  increased.  "It  seems  to 
me,"  she  said  slowly: — "Herbert,  it  seems  to  me 
there  must  be  some  awful  inter 'sting  thing  we 


GENTLE  JULIA  121 

could  do  with  so  many  bugs  all  together  like 
this." 

"*We'!"  he  cried.  "My  goodness,  whose  insecks 
do  you  think  these  insecks  are?  " 

"I  just  know  there's  somep'n,"  she  went  on,  fol 
lowing  her  own  line  of  thought,  and  indifferent  to  his 
outburst.  "There's  somep'n  we  could  do  with  'em 
that  we'd  never  forget,  if  we  could  only  think  of  it." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Herbert  was  interested.  "Well, 
what?"  he  asked.  "What  could  we  do  with  'em 
we'd  never  forget?  " 

In  her  eyes  there  was  a  far-away  light  as  of  a  seeress 
groping.  "I  don't  just  know  exackly,  but  I  know 
there's  somep'n — if  we  could  only  think  of  it — if  we 

could  just "  And  her  voice  became  inaudible, 

as  in  dreamy  concentration  she  seated  herself  upon 
the  discarded  ice-cream  freezer,  and  rested  her  el 
bows  upon  her  knees  and  her  chin  upon  the  palms 
of  her  hands. 

In  silence  then,  she  thought  and  thought.  Herbert 
also  was  silent,  for  he,  too,  was  trying  to  think,  not 
knowing  that  already  he  had  proved  himself  to  be 
wax  in  her  hands,  and  that  he  was  destined  further 
to  show  himself  thus  malleable.  Like  many  and 
many  another  of  his  sex,  he  never  for  an  instant 


GENTLE  JULIA 

suspected  that  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time 
carrying  out  ideas  implanted  within  him  by  a  lady- 
friend.  Florence  was  ever  the  imaginative  one  of 
those  two,  a  maiden  of  unexpected  fancies  and  in 
explicable  conceptions,  a  mind  of  quicksilver  and 
mist.  There  was  within  her  the  seedling  of  a  creative 
artist,  and  as  she  sat  there,  on  the  ice-cream  freezer 
in  Herbert's  cellar,  with  the  slowly  growing  roseate 
glow  of  deep  preoccupation  upon  her,  she  looked 
strangely  sweet  and  good,  and  even  almost  pretty. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

DO  YOU  s'pose,"  she  said,  at  last,  in  a  mus 
ing  voice:  "Herbert,  do  you  s'pose  may 
be  there's  some  poor  family's  children 
somewheres  that  haven't  got  any  playthings  or 
anything  and  we  could  take  all  these " 

But  here  Herbert  proved  unsympathetic.  "I'm 
not  goin'  to  give  my  insecks  to  any  poor  people's 
children,"  he  said  emphatically.  "I  don't  care  how 
poor  they  are !" 

"Well,  I  thought  maybe  just  as  a  surprise " 

"I  won't  do  it.  I  had  mighty  hard  work  to 
catch  this  c'lection,  and  I'm  not  goin'  to  give  it 
away  to  anybody,  I  don't  care  how  surprised  they'd 
be!  Anyway,  I'd  never  get  any  thanks  for  it;  they 
wouldn't  know  how  to  handle  'em,  and  they'd 
get  all  stung  up:  and  what'd  be  the  use,  anyhow? 
I  don't  see  how  that's  goin'  to  be  somep'n  so  interest 
ing  we'd  never  forget  it." 

"No,"shesaid.  "I  guess  it  wouldn't.  Ijustthought 
it  would  be  kind  of  a  bellnevolent  thing  to  do." 

123 


124  GENTLE  JULIA 

This  word  disturbed  Herbert,  but  he  did  not  feel 
altogether  secure  in  his  own  impression  that  "  be- 
no  walent"  was  the  proper  rendition  of  what  she 
meant,  and  so  refrained  from  criticism.  Their 
musing  was  resumed. 

"There's  one  thing  I  do  wish,"  Florence  said  sud 
denly,  after  a  time.  "I  wish  we  could  find  some  way 
to  use  the  ejection  that  would  be  useful  for  Noble 
Dill." 

Now,  at  this,  her  cousin's  face  showed  simple 
amazement.  "What  on  earth  you  talkin'  about?" 

"Noble  Dill,"  she  said  dreamily.  "He's  the  only 
one  I  like  that  comes  to  see  Aunt  Julia.  Anyway,  I 
like  him  the  most." 

"I  bet  Aunt  Julia  don't! " 

"I  don't  care:  he's  the  one  1  wish  she'd  get  married 
to." 

Herbert  was  astounded.  "Noble  Dill?  Why, 
I  heard  mamma  and  Aunt  Hattie  and  Uncle  Joe 
talkin'  about  him  yesterday." 

"What'd  they  say?" 

"Most  of  the  time,"  said  Herbert,  "they  just 
laughed.  They  said  Noble  Dill  was  the  very  last 
person  in  this  town  Aunt  Julia'd  ever  dream  o'  marry- 
in'.  They  said  he  wasn't  anything:  they  said  he 


GENTLE  JULIA  , 

wasn't  handsome  and  he  wasn't  distingrished-look- 
ing " 

"I  think  he  is,"  Florence  interposed.  "I  think  he's 
very  distingrished-looking." 

"Well,  they  said  he  wasn't,  and  they  know  more'n 
you  do.  Why,  Noble  Dill  isn't  hardly  any  taller 'n 
I  am  myself,  and  he  hasn't  got  any  muscle  partick- 
yourly .  Aunt  Julia  wouldn't  look  at  him ! " 

"She  does,  too!  My  goodness,  how  could  he 
sit  on  the  porch,  right  in  front  of  her,  for  two  or 
three  hours  at  a  time,  without  her  lookin'  at  him?" 

"I  don't  care,"  Herbert  insisted  stubbornly. 
"They  said  Aunt  Julia  wouldn't.  They  said  she 
was  the  worst  flirt  had  ever  been  in  the  whole  family 
and  Noble  Dill  had  the  worst  case  they  ever  saw, 
but  she  wouldn't  ever  look  at  him,  and  if  she  did 
she'd  be  crazy." 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Florence,  "I  think  he's 
the  nicest  of  all  that  goes  to  see  her,  and  I  wish  we 
could  use  this  c'lection  some  way  that  would  be  nice 
for  him." 

Herbert  renewed  his  protest.  "How  many  times 
I  got  to  tell  you  I  had  a  hard  enough  time  catchin' 
this  c'lection,  day  in  and  day  out,  from  before  day 
light  till  after  dark,  and  then  fixin'  'em  all  up  like 


126  GENTLE  JULIA 

this  and  everything!  I  don't  prapose  to  waste  'em 
just  to  suit  Noble  Dill,  and  I'm  not  goin'  to  give  'em 
away  either.  If  anybody  wanted  to  buy  'em  and 
offered  a  good  fair  price,  money  down,  why,  I " 

"That's  it,  Herbert!"  his  lady-cousin  exclaimed 
with  sudden  excitement.  "Let's  sell  'em!"  She 
jumped  up,  her  eyes  bright.  "I  bet  we  could  get 
maybe  five  dollars  for  'em.  We  can  pour  the  ones 
that  are  in  the  jars  that  haven't  got  tops  and  the 
ones  in  the  jelly  glasses  and  pill-boxes — we  can  pour 
all  those  into  the  jars  that  have  got  tops,  and  put  the 
tops  on  again,  and  that'd  just  about  fill  those  jars — 
and  then  we  could  put  'em  in  a  basket  and  take  'em 
out  and  sell  'em!" 

"Where  could  we  sell  'em?"  Herbert  inquired, 
not  convinced. 

"At  the  fish  store!"  she  cried.  "Everybody  uses 
bugs  and  worms  for  bait  when  they  go  fishing,  don't 
they?  I  bet  the  fish  man'll  buy  all  the  worms  we 
got,  even  if  he  wouldn't  buy  anything  else.  I  bet 
he'll  buy  all  the  others,  too !  I  bet  he  never  saw  as 
much  good  bait  as  this  all  at  one  tune  in  his  whole 
life!  I  bet  he'll  give  us  five  dollars — maybe  more!" 

Herbert  was  dazzled;  the  thought  of  this  market 
was  a  revelation — nothing  could  have  been  more 


GENTLE  JULIA  127 

plausible.  Considered  as  bait,  the  c'lection  at  once 
seemed  to  acquire  a  practical  and  financial  value 
which  it  lacked,  purely  as  a  c'lection.  And  with 
that  the  amateur  and  scientist  disappeared,  giving 
way  to  the  person  of  affairs.  "'Give  us  five  dol 
lars'?"  he  said,  in  this  capacity,  and  for  deeper  effect 
he  used  a  rhetorical  expression:  "Who  do  you  think 
is  the  owner  of  all  this  fish  bait,  may  I  ask  you, 
pray?" 

"Yes,  you  may,  pray!"  was  his  cousin's  instant 
and  supercilious  retort.  "Pray  where  would  you 
ever  of  got  any  five  dollars  from  any  fish  man,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  me,  pray?  Pray,  didn't  I  first  sa- 
jest  our  doing  somep'n  with  the  bugs  we'd  never  for 
get,  and  if  the  fish  man  gives  us  five  dollars  for  'em 
won't  we  remember  it  all  our  lives,  pray?  And, 
pray,  what  part  did  you  think  up  of  all  this,  pray? 
Not  one  single  thing,  and  if  you  don't  divide  even 
with  me,  I'll  run  ahead  and  tell  the  fish  man  the 
whole  c'lection  has  been  in  bottles  that  had  old 
medicine  and  poison  in  'em — and  then  where'll  you 
be,  pray?" 

It  is  to  be  doubted  that  Florence  possessed  the 
cold-blooded  capacities  with  which  this  impromptu 
in  diplomacy  seemed  to  invest  her:  probably  she 


128  GENTLE  JULIA 

would  never  have  gone  so  far.  But  the  words  sufficed: 
and  Herbert  was  so  perfectly  intimidated  that  he  was 
even  unresentful.  "Well,  you  can  have  your  ole  two 
dollars  and  a  half,  whether  you  got  a  right  to  it  or 
not,"  he  said.  "But  you  got  to  carry  the  basket." 

"No,"  said  Florence.  "This  has  got  to  be  done 
right,  Herbert.  We're  partners  now  and  every 
thing's  got  to  be  divided  just  exackly  even.  I'll 
carry  the  basket  half  the  way  and  you  carry  it  the 
other  half." 

"Well "  he  grumbled,  consenting. 

"That's  the  only  right  way,"  she  said  sunnily. 
"You  carry  it  till  we  get  to  the  fish  man's,  and  I'll 
carry  it  all  the  way  back." 

But  even  Herbert  could  perceive  the  inequality 
here.  "It'll  be  empty  then,"  he  protested. 

"Fair's  fair  and  wrong's  wrong,"  she  returned 
firmly.  "I  spoke  first  to  carry  it  on  the  way  home, 
and  the  one  that  speaks  first  gets  it!" 

"Look  here!" 

"Herbert,  we  got  to  get  all  these  bugs  fixed  up  and 
ready,"  she  urged.  "We  don't  want  to  waste  the 
whole  afternoon  just  talkin'  about  it,  do  we?  Be 
sides,  Herbert,  on  the  way  home  you'll  have  two 
dollars  and  a  half  in  your  pocket,  or  anyway  as  much 


GENTLE  JULIA 

as  you  have  left,  if  you  buy  some  soda  and  candy  and 
things,  and  you'll  feel  so  fine  then  you  won't  mind 
whether  you're  carrying  the  basket  or  not." 

The  picture  she  now  suggested  to  Herbert's  mind 
was  of  himself  carrying  the  basket  both  to  the  fish 
man  and  from  the  fish  man:  and  he  found  himself 
anxious  to  protest,  yet  helpless  in  a  maze  of  per 
plexity.  "But  wait  a  minute,"  he  began.  "You 
said " 

"Let's  don't  waste  another  minute,"  she  inter 
rupted  briskly.  "I  shouldn't  wonder  it  was  after 
four  o'clock  by  this  time,  and  we  both  need  money. 
Hurry,  Herbert!" 

"But  didn't  you  say "  He  paused  to  rub  his 

head.  "You  said  I'd  feel  so  good  I  wouldn't  mind 
if  I— if " 

"No.     I  said, 'Hurry'!" 

"Well "  And  though  he  felt  that  a  subtle 

injustice  lurked  somewhere,  he  was  unable  to  think 
the  matter  out  clearly  into  its  composing  elements, 
and  gave  up  trying.  Nevertheless,  as  he  obeyed 
her,  and  began  to  "hurry,"  there  remained  with  him 
an  impression  that  by  some  foggy  and  underhand 
process  he  had  been  committed  to  acquiescence  in  an 
unfair  division  of  labour. 


130  GENTLE  JULIA 

In  this  he  was  not  mistaken.  An  hour  later  he 
and  Florence  were  on  their  way  home  from  the  fish 
man's  place  of  business,  and  Herbert,  having  carried 
the  basket  thither,  was  now  carrying  it  thence. 
Moreover,  his  burden  was  precisely  as  heavy  on  this 
homeward  leg  of  the  course  as  it  had  been  on  that 
terminating  at  the  fish  store,  for,  covered  by  a  discreet 
newspaper,  the  preserve  and  pickle  jars  still  remained 
within  the  basket,  their  crowding  and  indignant 
contents  intact.  The  fish  man  had  explained  in 
terms  derisive,  but  plain,  the  difference  between  a 
fish  man  and  a  fisherman.  He  had  maintained 
his  definitions  of  the  two  economic  functions  in 
spite  of  persistent  arguments  on  the  part  of  the 
bait-dealers,  and  in  the  face  of  reductions  that  finally 
removed  ninety  per  cent,  of  their  asking  price. 
He  wouldn't  give  fifty  cents,  or  ten  cents,  or  one  cent, 
he  said:  and  he  couldn't  furnish  the  address  of  any 
body  else  that  would.  His  fish  came  by  express,  he 
declared,  again  and  again:  and  the  only  people  he 
knew  that  did  any  fishing  were  mainly  coloured,  and 
dug  their  own  bait;  and  though  these  might  possibly  be 
willing  to  accept  the  angle  worms  as  a  gift,  they  would 
probably  incline  to  resent  a  generosity  including  so 
many  spiders,  not  to  speak  of  the  dangerous  winged 


GENTLE  JULIA  131 

members  of  the  c'lection.  On  account  of  these 
latter,  he  jocosely  professed  himself  to  be  anxious 
lest  the  tops  of  some  of  the  jars  might  work  loose — 
and  altogether  he  was  the  most  disheartening  man 
they  had  ever  met. 

Anticlimax  was  never  the  stimulant  of  amiability, 
and,  after  an  altercation  on  the  pavement  just  out 
side  of  the  store,  during  which  the  derisive  fish  man 
continually  called  to  them  to  go  on  and  take  that 
there  basket  out  of  the  neighbourhood,  the  cousins 
moved  morbidly  away,  and  walked  for  a  time  in 
silence. 

They  brooded.  Herbert  was  even  more  embit 
tered  with  Florence  than  he  was  with  the  fish  man, 
and  Florence  found  life  full  of  unexpectedness;  it  had 
been  so  clear  to  her  that  the  fish  man  would  say: 
"Why,  certainly.  Here's  five  dollars;  two  dollars 
and  a  half  for  each  of  you.  Would  you  care  to  have 
the  jars  back?"  The  facts,  so  contrary,  seemed  to 
wear  the  aspect  of  deliberate  malice,  and  she  felt  ill- 
used,  especially  as  she  had  several  physical  griev 
ances,  due  to  her  assistance  in  pouring  part  of  the 
c'lection  into  the  jars  with  tops.  In  spite  of  every 
precaution  three  or  four  of  the  liveliest  items  had 
made  their  escape,  during  this  pouring,  and  had 


132  GENTLE  JULIA 

behaved  resentfully.  Florence  bore  one  result  on 
the  back  of  her  left  hand,  two  others  on  the  thumb 
and  second  finger  of  her  right  hand,  and  another,  nat 
urally  the  most  conspicuous,  on  the  point  of  her  chin. 
These  had  all  been  painful,  in  spite  of  mud  poultices, 
but,  excited  by  the  anticipation  of  a  kindly  smiling 
fish  man,  and  occupied  with  plans  for  getting  Her 
bert  to  spend  part  of  his  two  dollars  and  a  half  for 
mutual  refreshment,  she  had  borne  up  cheerfully. 
Now,  comprehending  that  she  had  suffered  in  vain, 
she  suffered  anew,  and  hated  bugs,  all  fish  men, 
and  the  world. 

It  was  Herbert  who  broke  the  silence  and  re 
newed  the  altercation.  "How  far  you  expeck  me 
to  go  on  luggin'  this  ole  basket?"  he  demanded 
bitterly.  "All  the  way  home?" 

"I  don't  care  how  far,"  she  informed  him.  "You 
can  throw  it  away  if  you  want  to.  It's  certainly 
no  propaty  of  mine,  thank  you!" 

"Look  here,  didn't  you  promise  you'd  carry  it 
home?" 

"I  said  I  spoke  to.     I  didn't  say  I  would  carry  it." 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  the  dif " 

But  Florence  cut  him  off.  "I'll  tell  you  the  dif 
ference,  since  you're  so  anxious  to  know  the  truth, 


GENTLE  JULIA  133 

Mister  Herbert  Atwater!  The  difference  is  just 
this:  you  had  no  biznuss  to  meddle  with  those  vile 
ole  bugs  in  the  first  place,  and  get  me  all  stung  up 
so't  I  shouldn't  wonder  I'd  haf  to  have  the  doctor, 
time  I  get  home,  and  if  I  do  I'm  goin'  to  tell  mamma 
all  about  it  and  make  her  send  the  bill  to  your  father. 
I  want  you  to  know  I  hurt  /" 

"My  goodness!"  Herbert  burst  out.  " Don't 
you  s'pose  I  hurt  any?  I  guess  you  don't  hurt  any 
worse  than " 

She  stopped  him :     "Listen ! " 

From  down  the  street  there  came  a  brazen  clamour 
ing  for  the  right  of  way;  it  grew  imperiously  louder, 
and  there  were  clatterings  and  whizzings  of  metallic 
bodies  at  speed,  while  little  blurs  and  glistenings 
in  the  distance  grew  swiftly  larger,  taking  shape  as  a 
fire  engine  and  a  hose-cart.  Then,  round  the  near-by 
corner,  came  perilously  steering  the  long  "hook-and- 
ladder  wagon";  it  made  the  turn  and  went  by,  with 
its  firemen  imperturbable  on  the  running  boards. 

"Fire!"  Florence  cried  joyfully.  "Let's  go!" 
And,  pausing  no  instant,  she  made  off  up  the  street, 
shouting  at  the  top  of  her  voice:  "Fire!  Fire! 
Fire!  Fire!'9 

Herbert  followed.     He  was  not  so  swift  a  runner 


134  GENTLE  JULIA 

as  she,  though  this  he  never  submitted  to  a  test 
admitted  to  be  fair  and  conclusive;  and  he  found  her 
demonstration  of  superiority  particularly  offensive 
now,  as  she  called  back  over  her  shoulder:  "Why 
don't  you  keep  up  with  me?  Can't  you  keep  up?" 

"I'd  show  you!"  he  panted.  "If  I  didn't  haf 
to  lug  this  ole  basket,  I'd  leave  you  a  mile  behind 
mighty  quick." 

"Well,  why 'n't  you  drop  it,  then?" 

"You  s'pose  I'm  goin'  to  throw  my  c'lection  away 
after  all  the  trouble  I  been  through  with  it?" 

She  slackened  her  gait,  dropping  back  beside  him. 
"Well,  then,  if  you  think  you  could  keep  up  with  me 
if  you  didn't  have  it,  why 'n't  you  leave  it  somewhere, 
and  come  back  and  get  it  after  the  fire's  over?" 

"No  place  to  leave  it." 

She  laughed,  and  pointed.  "Why'n't  you  leave 
it  at  grandpa's?" 

"Will  you  wait  for  me  and  start  fair?" 

"Come  on!"  They  obliqued  across  the  street, 
still  running  forward,  and  at  their  grandfather's 
gate  Herbert  turned  in  and  sped  toward  the  house. 

"Take  it  around  to  the  kitchen  and  give  it  to  Kitty 
Silver,"  Florence  called.  "Tell  Kitty  Silver  to  take 
care  of  it  for  you." 


GENTLE  JULIA  135 

But  Herbert  was  in  no  mind  to  follow  her  advice; 
a  glance  over  his  shoulder  showed  that  Florence  was 
taking  another  unfair  advantage  of  him.  "You 
wait!"  he  shouted.  "You  stand  still  till  I  get  back 
there!  You  got  half  a  mile  start  a'ready!  You 
wait  till  we  can  start  even!" 

But  Florence  was  skipping  lightly  away  and  she 
caroled  over  her  shoulder,  waving  her  hand  in  mock 
ing  farewell  as  she  began  to  run: 

"Ole  Mister  Slowpoke  can't  catch  me! 
Ole  Mister  Slowpoke  couldn't  catch  a  flea  !" 

"I'll  show  you!"  he  bellowed,  and,  not  to  lose 
more  time,  he  dashed  up  the  steps  of  the  deserted 
veranda,  thrust  his  basket  deep  underneath  a 
wicker  settee,  and  ran  violently  after  his  elusive 
cousin. 

She  kept  a  tantalizing  distance  between  them, 
but  when  they  reached  the  fire  it  was  such  a 
grand  one  they  forgot  all  their  differences — and  also 
all  about  the  basket. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

NOBLE  DILL  came  from  his  father's  house, 
after  dinner  that  evening,  a  youth  in  blos 
som,  like  the  shrubberies  and  garden  beds 
in  the  dim  yards  up  and  down  Julia's  Street.  All 
cooled  and  bathed  and  in  new  clothes  of  white,  he 
took  his  thrilled  walk  through  the  deep  summer 
twilight,  on  his  way  to  that  ineffable  Front  Porch 
where  sat  Julia,  misty  in  the  dusk.  The  girlish 
little  new  moon  had  perished  naively  out  of  the  sky; 
the  final  pinkness  of  the  west  was  gone;  blue  evening 
held  the  quiet  world;  and  overhead,  between  the 
branches  of  the  maple  trees,  were  powdered  all  those 
bright  pin  points  of  light  that  were  to  twinkle  on 
generations  of  young  lovers  after  Noble  Dill,  each 
one,  like  Noble,  walking  this  same  fragrant  path  in 
summer  twilights  to  see  the  Prettiest  Girl  of  All. 
Now  and  then  there  came  to  the  faintly  throbbing 
ears  of  the  pedestrian  a  murmur  of  voices  from  lawns 
where  citizens  sat  cooling  after  the  day's  labour,  or 
a  tinkle  of  laughter  from  where  maidens  dull  (not 

136 


GENTLE  JULIA  137 

being  Julia)  sat  on  verandas  vacant  of  beauty  and 
glamour.  For  these  poor  things,  Noble  felt  a  won 
dering  and  disdainful  pity;  he  pitied  everything 
hi  the  world  that  was  not  on  the  way  to  starry 
Julia. 

Eight  nights  had  passed  since  he,  himself,  had  seen 
her,  but  to-day  she  had  replied  (over  the  telephone) 
that  Mr.  Atwater  seemed  to  have  settled  down  again, 
and  she  believed  it  might  be  no  breach  of  tact  for 
Noble  to  call  that  evening — especially  as  she  would 
be  on  the  veranda,  and  he  needn't  ring  the  bell. 
Would  she  be  alone — for  once?  It  was  improbable, 
yet  it  could  be  hoped. 

But  as  he  came  hoping  up  the  street,  another  al 
ready  sat  beside  Julia,  sharing  with  her  the  wicker 
settee  on  the  dim  porch,  and  this  was  the  horn 
rimmed  young  poet.  Newland  had,  as  usual,  a  new 
poem  with  him;  and  as  others  had  proved  of  late 
that  they  could  sit  on  Julia's  veranda  as  long  as  he 
could,  he  had  seized  the  first  opportunity  to  familiar 
ize  her  with  this  latest  work. 

The  veranda  was  dark,  and  to  go  indoors  to  the 
light  might  have  involved  too  close  a  juxtaposition 
to  peculiar  old  Mr.  Atwater  who  was  in  the  library; 
but  the  resourceful  Newland,  foreseeing  everything, 


138  GENTLE  JULIA 

had  brought  with  him  a  small  pocket  flashlight  to 
illumine  his  manuscript.  "It's  vers  libre,  of  course," 
he  said  as  he  moved  the  flashlight  over  the  sheets 
of  scribbled  paper.  "I  think  I  told  you  I  was  be 
ginning  to  give  all  the  old  forms  up.  It's  the  one 
new  movement,  and  I  felt  I  ought  to  master  it." 

"Of  course,"  she  said  sympathetically,  though 
with  a  little  nervousness.  "Be  just  a  wee  bit  care 
ful  with  the  flashlight  —  about  turning  it  toward 
the  window,  I  mean  —  and  read  in  your  nice  low  voice. 
I  always  like  poetry  best  when  it's  almost  whispered. 
I  think  it  sounds  more  musical  that  way,  I  mean." 

Newland  obeyed.  His  voice  was  hushed  and 
profoundly  appreciative  of  the  music  in  itself  and 
in  his  poem,  as  he  read: 


"I  —  And  Love  ! 
Lush  white  lilies  line  the  pool 
Like  laces  limned  on  looking-glasses! 
I  tread  the  lilies  underfoot, 
Careless  how  they  love  me  ! 
Still  white  maidens  woo  me, 
Win  me  not  ! 
But  thou  ! 

Thou  art  a  cornflower 
Sapphire-eyed  ! 
I  bend  ! 

Cornflower,  I  ask  a  question. 
0  flower,  speak  -  " 


GENTLE  JULIA  139 

Julia  spoke.  "I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  while  New- 
land's  spirit  filled  with  a  bitterness  extraordinary 
even  in  an  interrupted  poet ;— "  I'm  afraid  it's  Mr. 
Dill  coming  up  the  walk.  We'll  have  to  post 
pone "  She  rose  and  went  to  the  steps  to  greet 

the  approaching  guest.  "  How  nice  of  you  to  come ! " 

Noble,  remaining  on  the  lowest  step,  clung  to  her 
hand  in  a  fever.  "Nice  to  come!"  he  said  hoarsely. 
"It's  eight  days — eight  days— eight  days  since " 

"Mr.  Sanders  is  here,"  she  said.  "It's  so  dark 
on  this  big  veranda  people  can  hardly  see  each  other. 
Come  up  and  sit  with  us.  I  don't  have  to  introduce 
you  two  men  to  each  other." 

She  did  not,  indeed.  They  said  "H'lo,  Dill" 
and  "H'lo  Sanders"  in  a  manner  of  such  slighting 
superiority  that  only  the  utmost  familiarity  could 
have  bred  a  contempt  so  magnificent.  Then,  when 
the  three  were  seated,  Mr.  Sanders  thought  well 
to  add:  "How's  rent  collecting  these  days,  Dill? 
Still  hustling  around  among  those  darky  shanties 
over  in  Bucktown?" 

In  the  dark  Noble  moved  convulsively,  but  con 
trived  to  affect  a  light  laugh,  or  a  sound  meant  for 
one,  as  he  replied,  in  a  voice  not  entirely  under  con 
trol:  "How's  the  ole  poetry,  Sanders?" 


140  GENTLE  JULIA 

"What?"  Newland  demanded  sharply.  "What 
did  you  say?" 

"I  said:  'How's  the  ole  poetry?'  Do  you  read 
it  to  all  your  relations  the  way  you  used  to?" 

"See  here,  Dill!" 

"Well,  what  you  want,  Sanders?" 

"You  try  to  talk  about  things  you  understand," 
said  Newland.  "You  better  keep  your  mind  on 
collecting  four  dollars  a  week  from  some  poor  col 
oured  widow,  and  don't " 

"I'd  rather  keep  my  mind  on  that!"  Noble  was 
inspired  to  retort.  "Your  Aunt  Georgina  told  my 
mother  that  ever  since  you  began  thinkin'  you  could 
write  poetry  the  life  your  family  led  was  just " 

Newland  interrupted.  He  knew  the  improper 
thing  his  Aunt  Georgina  had  said,  and  he  was  again, 

and  doubly,  infuriated  by  the  prospect  of  its  repe- 

• 

tition  here.    He  began  fiercely: 

"Dill,  you  see  here " 

"Your  Aunt  Georgina  said " 

Both  voices  had  risen.  Plainly  it  was  time  for 
someone  to  say!  "Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!"  Julia 
glanced  anxiously  through  the  darkness  of  the  room 
beyond  the  open  window  beside  her,  to  where  the 
light  of  the  library  lamp  shone  upon  a  door  ajar; 


GENTLE  JULIA  141 

and  she  was  the  more  nervous  because  Noble,  to 
give  the  effect  of  coolness,  had  lit  an  Orduma  ciga 
rette. 

She  laughed  amiably,  as  if  the  two  young  gentle 
men  were  as  amiable  as  she.  "I've  thought  of 
something,"  she  said.  "Let's  take  the  settee  and 
some  chairs  down  on  the  lawn  where  we  can  sit  and 
see  the  moon." 

"There  isn't  any,"  Noble  remarked  vacantly. 

"Let's  go,  anyhow,"  she  said  cheerily.  "Come  on." 

Her  purpose  was  effected;  the  belligerents  were 
diverted,  and  Noble  lifted  the  light  wicker  settee. 
"I'll  carry  this,"  he  said.  "It's  no  trouble.  San 
ders  can  carry  a  chair — I  guess  he'd  be  equal  to  that 
much."  He  stumbled,  dropped  the  settee,  and  lifted 
a  basket,  its  contents  covered  with  a  newspaper. 
"Somebody  must  have " 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's  a  basket,"  said  Noble. 

"How  curious!" 

Julia  peered  through  the  darkness.  "I  wonder 
who  could  have  left  that  market  basket  out  here. 

I  suppose "  She  paused.  "Our  cook  does  do 

more  idiotic  things  than I'll  go  ask  her  if  it's 


•urs." 


142  GENTLE  JULIA 

She  stepped  quickly  into  the  house,  leaving  two  con 
centrations  of  inimical  silence  behind  her,  but  she  re 
turned  almost  immediately,  followed  by  Kitty  Silver. 

"It's  no  use  to  argue,"  Julia  was  saying  as  they  came. 
"You  did  your  marketing  and  simply  and  plainly  left 
it  out  there  because  you  were  too  shiftless  to " 

"No'm,"  Mrs.  Silver  protested  in  a  high  voice  of 
defensive  complaint.  "No'm,  Miss  Julia,  I  ain'  lef 
no  baskit  on  no  front  po'che!  I  got  jus'  th'ee  mar- 
,  kit  baskits  in  the  livin'  worl'  an'  they  ev'y  las'  one 
an'  all  sittin'  right  where  I  kin  lay  my  han's  on  'em 
behime  my  back  do'.  No'm,  Miss  Julia,  I  take  my 
solemn  oaf  I  ain'  lef  no "  But  here  she  de 
bouched  upon  the  porch,  and  in  spite  of  the  darkness 
perceived  herself  to  be  in  the  presence  of  distinguished 
callers.  "Pahdon  me,"  she  said  loftily,  her  tone 
altering  at  once,  "I  beg  leaf  to  insis'  I  better  take 
thishere  baskit  back  to  my  kitchen  an'  see  whut- 
all's  insiden  of  it." 

With  an  elegant  gesture  she  received  the  basket 
from  Noble  Dill  and  took  the  handle  over  her  ample 
forearm.  "Hum!"  she  said.  "Thishere  ole  basket 
kine  o'  heavy,  too.  I  wunner  whut-all  she  is  got 
in  her!"  And  she  groped  within  the  basket,  be 
neath  the  newspaper. 


GENTLE  JULIA  143 

Now,  it  was  the  breath  of  Kitty  Silver's  life  to 
linger,  when  she  could,  in  a  high  atmosphere;  and 
she  was  a  powerful  gossip,  exorbitantly  interested 
in  her  young  mistress's  affairs  and  all  callers.  There 
fore  it  was  beyond  her  not  to  seize  upon  any  excuse 
that  might  detain  her  for  any  time  whatever  in  her 
present  surroundings. 

"Pusserve  jugs,"  she  said.  "Pusserve  or  pickle. 
Cain't  tell  which." 

"You  can  in  the  kitchen,"  Julia  said,  with  pointed 
suggestion.  "Of  course  you  can't  in  the  dark." 

But  still  Mrs.  Silver  snatched  at  the  fleeting  mo 
ment  and  did  not  go.  "Tell  by  smellin'  'em,"  she 
murmured,  seemingly  to  herself. 

With  ease  she  unscrewed  the  top  of  one  of  the 
jars;  then  held  the  open  jar  to  her  nose.  "Don't 
smell  to  me  exackly  like  no  pusserves,"  she  said. 

"Nor  yit  like  no  pickles.  Don't  smell  to  me " 

She  hesitated,  sniffed  the  jar  again,  and  then  in 
quired  in  a  voice  quickly  grown  anxious:  "Whut 
is  all  thishere  in  thishere  jug?  Seem  like  to  me " 

But  here  she  interrupted  herself  to  utter  a  muffled 
exclamation,  not  coherent.  Instantly  she  added 
some  words  suitable  to  religious  observances,  but 
in  a  voice  of  passion.  At  the  same  time,  with  a 


144  GENTLE  JULIA 

fine  gesture,  she  hurled  the  jar  and  the  basket  from 
her,  and  both  came  in  contact  with  the  wall,  not 
far  away,  with  a  sound  of  breakage. 

"Why,  what "  Julia  began.  "Kitty  Silver, 

are  you  crazy?  " 

But  Kitty  Silver  was  moving  hurriedly  toward 
the  open  front  door,  where  appeared,  at  that  moment, 
Mr.  Atwater  in  his  most  irascible  state  of  peculiarity. 

He  began:  "What  was  that  heathenish " 

Shouting,  Mrs.  Silver  jostled  by  him,  and,  though 
she  disappeared  into  the  house,  a  trail  of  calamitous 
uproar  marked  her  passage  to  the  kitchen. 

"What  thing  has  happened?"  Mr.  Atwater  de 
manded.  "Is  she " 

His  daughter  interrupted  him. 

"Oh!"  was  all  she  said,  and  sped  by  him  like  a  bit 
of  blown  thistledown,  into  the  house.  He  grasped 
at  her  as  she  passed  him;  then  suddenly  he  made 
other  gestures,  and,  like  Kitty  Silver,  used  Jacobean 
phrases.  But  now  there  were  no  auditors,  for 
Noble  Dill  and  Newland  Sanders,  after  thoughtlessly 
following  a  mutual  and  natural  impulse  to  step  over 
and  examine  the  fallen  basket,  had  both  gone  out 
to  the  street,  where  they  lingered  a  while,  then  de 
cided  to  go  home. 


GENTLE  JULIA  145 

.  .  .  Later,  that  evening,  Florence  and  Her 
bert  remembered  the  c'lection;  so  they  came  for  it, 
a  mistake.  Discovering  the  fragments  upon  the 
veranda,  they  made  the  much  more  important  mis 
take  of  entering  the  house  to  demand  an  explana 
tion,  which  they  received  immediately  It  was 
delivered  with  so  much  vigour,  indeed,  that  Florence 
was  surprised  and  hurt.  And  yet,  the  most  im 
portant  of  her  dreamy  wishes  of  the  afternoon  had 
been  fulfilled:  the  c'lection  had  been  useful  to  Noble 
Dill,  for  Mr.  Atwater  had  smelled  the  smell  of  an 
Orduina  cigarette  and  was  just  on  the  point  of 
coming  out  to  say  some  harsh  things,  when  the  c'lec 
tion  interfered.  And  as  Florence  was  really  respon 
sible  for  its  having  been  in  a  position  to  interfere,  so 
to  say,  she  had  actually  in  a  manner  protected  her 
protege  and  also  shown  some  of  that  power  of  which 
she  had  boasted  when  she  told  him  that  sometimes 
she  made  members  of  her  family  "step  around 
pretty  lively." 

Another  of  her  wishes  appeared  to  be  on  the  way  to 
fulfilment,  too.  She  had  hoped  that  something 
memorable  might  be  done  with  the  c'lection,  and  the 
interview  with  her  grandfather,  her  Aunt  Julia,  and 
Kitty  Silver  seemed  to  leave  this  beyond  doubt. 


V 


CHAPTER  TEN 

NOW  August  came,  that  florid  lazy  month 
when  midsummer  dawdles  along  in  trailing 
greeneries,  and  the  day  is  like  some  jocund 
pagan,  all  flushed  and  asleep,  with  dripping  beard 
rosy  in  a  wine  bowl  of  fat  vine  leaves.  Yet,  in 
this  languorous  time  there  may  befall  a  brisker 
night,  cool  and  lively  as  an  intrusive  boy — a  night 
made  for  dancing.  On  such  a  night  a  hasty  thought 
might  put  it  as  desirable  that  all  the  world  should 
be  twenty-two  years  old  and  in  love,  like  Noble 
Dill. 

Upon  the  white  bed  in  his  room,  as  he  dressed,  lay 
the  flat  black  silhouettes  of  his  short  evening  coat 
and  trousers,  side  by  side,  trim  from  new  pressing; 
and  whenever  he  looked  at  them  Noble  felt  rich,  tall, 
distinguished,  and  dramatic.  It  is  a  mistake,  as  most 
literary  legends  are  mistakes,  to  assume  that  girls 
are  the  only  people  subject  to  before-the-party  ex 
hilaration.  At  such  times  a  girl  is  often  in  the 
anxious  yet  determined  mood  of  a  runner  before  a 

146 


GENTLE  JULIA  147 

foot  race,  or  she  may  be  merely  hopeful;  some  are 
merry  and  some  are  grim,  but  arithmetical  cal 
culation  of  some  sort,  whether  glorious  or  uneasy, 
is  busy  in  their  eyes  as  they  pin  and  pat  before  their 
mirrors.  To  behold  romance  gone  light-headed, 
turn  to  the  humbler  sort  of  man-creature  under 
twenty-three.  Alone  in  his  room,  he  may  enact  for 
you  scenes  of  flowery  grace  and  most  capricious 
gallantry,  rehearsals  as  unconscious  as  the  curtsies 
of  field  daisies  in  a  breeze.  He  has  neither  doubt 
nor  certainty  of  his  charm;  he  has  no  arithmetic  at  all, 
and  is  often  so  free  of  calculation  that  he  does  not 
even  pull  down  the  shades  at  his  windows. 

Unfortunately  for  the  neighbours,  and  even  for 
passers-by,  since  Noble's  room  had  a  window  visible 
from  the  street,  his  prophetic  mother  had  closed  his 
shutters  before  he  began  to  dress.  Thus  she  deprived 
honest  folk  of  what  surely  must  have  been  to  them 
the  innocent  pleasure  of  seeing  a  very  young  man 
in  light  but  complete  underwear,  lifting  from  his  head 
a  Panama  hat,  new  that  day,  in  a  series  of  courteous 
salutations.  At  times,  during  this  same  stage  of  his 
toilet,  they  might  have  had  even  more  entertain 
ment: — before  putting  on  his  socks  Noble  "one- 
stepped"  for  several  minutes,  still  retaining  upon 


148  GENTLE  JULIA 

his  head  the  new  hat.  This  was  a  hat  of  double 
value  to  him;  not  only  was  it  pleasant  to  behold  in 
his  mirror,  but  it  was  engaged  in  solidifying  for  the 
evening  the  arrangement  of  his  hair. 

It  may  be  admitted  that  he  was  a  little  giddy,  for 
the  dance  was  Julia's.  Mr.  Atwater  had  been  sum 
moned  to  New  York  on  a  blessed  business  that  would 
keep  him  a  fortnight,  and  his  daughter,  alert  to  the 
first  flash  of  opportunity,  had  almost  instantly 
summoned  musicians,  florists,  a  caterer,  and  set  plans 
before  them.  Coincidentally,  Noble  had  chanced 
to  see  Mr.  Atwater  driving  down  Julia's  Street  that 
morning,  a  travelling  bag  beside  him,  and,  immediately 
putting  aside  for  the  day  all  business  cares,  hurried 
to  the  traveller's  house.  Thus  he  forestalled,  for  the 
time  being,  that  competition  which  helped  to  make 
caring  for  Julia  so  continuous  a  strain  upon  whatever 
organ  is  the  seat  of  the  anxieties.  Kind  Julia,  busy 
as  she  was,  agreed  to  dance  the  first  danco  with  him, 
and  the  last — those  being  considered  of  such  signi 
ficance  that  he  would  be  entitled  to  the  perquisites 
of  a  special  cavalier;  for  instance,  a  seat  beside  her 
during  the  serving  of  the  customary  light  repast.  In 
such  high  fortune,  no  wonder  he  was  a  little  giddy  as 
he  dressed! 

,,. 

*  ^i' 


GENTLE  JULIA  149 

The  process  of  clothing  himself  was  disconnected, 
being  broken  by  various  enacted  fancies  and  inter 
ludes.  Having  approached  the  length  of  one  sock 
toward  the  completion  of  his  toilet,  he  absently 
dropped  the  other  upon  the  floor,  and  danced 
again;  his  expression  and  attitude  signifying  that 
he  clasped  a  revered  partner.  Releasing  her  from 
this  respectful  confinement,  he  offered  the  invisible 
lady  a  gracious  arm  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  with  a  stateliness  tempered  to  rhythm,  a  cake- 
walk  of  strange  refinement.  Phrases  seemed  to  be 
running  in  his  head,  impromptus  symbolic  of  the 
touching  and  romantic,  for  he  spoke  them  half  aloud 
in  a  wistful  yet  uplifted  manner.  "Oh,  years!" 
he  said.  "Oh,  years  so  fair;  oh,  night  so  rare!" 
Then  he  added,  in  a  deeper  voice : 

"For  life  is  but  a  golden  dream  so  sweetly." 
Other  whimsies  came  forth  from  him  as  the  dress 
ing  slowly  ocontinued,  though  one  might  easily  be 
at   fault   in   attempting   to   fathom   what   was  his 
thought  when,  during  the  passage  of  his  right  foot 
through  the  corresponding  leg  of  his  trousers,  he 
exclaimed  commandingly : 
'"Now,  Jocko,  for  the  stirrup  cup!" 
Jack  boots  and  a  faithful  squire,  probably. 


150  GENTLE  JULIA 

During  the  long  and  dreamy  session  with  his  neck 
gear  he  went  back  to  the  softer  motif: 
"Oh,  years  so  fair;  oh,  night  so  rare! 
For  life  is  but  a  golden  dream  so  sweetly." 

Then,  pausing  abruptly  to  look  at  his  coat,  so 
smoothly  folded  upon  the  bed,  he  addressed  it:  "O 
noblest  sample  of  the  tailor's  dext'rous  art!" 

This  was  too  much  courtesy,  for  the  coat  was 
"ready-made,"  and  looked  nobler  upon  the  bed 
than  upon  its  owner.  In  fact,  it  was  by  no  means  a 
dext'rous  sample;  but  evidently  Noble  believed  in  it 
with  a  high  and  satisfying  faith;  and  he  repeated  his 
compliment  to  it  as  he  put  it  on: 

"Come,  noblest  sample  of  the  tailor's  art;  I'll 
donthee!" 

During  these  processes  he  had  been  repeatedly 
summoned  to  descend  to  the  family  dinner,  and  fi 
nally  his  mother  came  lamenting  and  called  up  from 
the  front  hall  that  "everything"  was  "all  getting 
cold!" 

But  by  this  time  he  was  on  his  way,  and  though 
he  went  back  to  leave  his  hat  in  his  room,  unwilling 
to  confide  it  to  the  hat-rack  below,  he  presently  made 
his  appearance  in  the  dining-room  and  took  his  seat 
at  the  table.  This  mere  sitting,  however,  appeared 


GENTLE  JULIA  151 

to  be  his  whole  conception  of  dining;  he  seemed  as 
unaware  of  his  mother's  urging  food  upon  him  as  if 
he  had  been  a  Noble  Dill  of  waxwork.  Several  times 
he  lifted  a  fork  and  set  it  down  without  guiding  it  to 
its  accustomed  destination.  Food  was  far  from  his 
thoughts  or  desires,  and  if  he  really  perceived  its 
presence  at  all,  it  appeared  to  him  as  something 
vaguely  ignoble  upon  the  horizon. 

But  he  was  able  to  partake  of  coffee;  drank  two 
cups  feverishly,  his  hand  visibly  unsteady;  and  when 
his  mother  pointed  out  this  confirmation  of  many 
prophecies  that  cigarettes  would  ruin  him,  he  asked 
if  anybody  had  noticed  whether  or  not  it  was  cloudy 
outdoors.  At  that  his  father  looked  despondent, 
for  the  open  windows  of  the  dining-room  revealed 
an  evening  of  fragrant  clarity. 

"I  see,  I  see,"  Noble  returned  pettishly  when  the 
fine  state  of  this  closely  adjacent  weather  was  pointed 
out  to  him  by  his  old-maid  sister.  "It  wouldn't 
be  raining,  of  course.  Not  on  a  night  like  this." 
He  jumped  up.  "It's  time  for  me  to  go." 

Mrs.  Dill  laughed.  "It's  only  a  little  after  seven. 
Julia  won't  be  through  her  own  dinner  yet.  You 
mustn't " 

But  with  a  tremulous  smile,  Noble  shook  his  head 


152  GENTLE  JULIA 

and  hurriedly  left  the  room.  He  went  upstairs  for 
his  hat,  and  while  there  pinned  a  geranium  blossom 
upon  his  lapel,  for  it  may  be  admitted  that  in  bou- 
tonnieres  his  taste  was  as  yet  unformed. 

Coming  down  again,  he  took  a  stick  under  his  arm 
and  was  about  to  set  forth  when  he  noticed  a  little 
drift  of  talcum  powder  upon  one  of  his  patent  leather 
shoes.  After  carefully  removing  this  accretion 
and  adding  a  brighter  lustre  to  the  shoe  by  means  of 
friction  against  the  back  of  his  ankle,  he  decided  to 
return  to  his  room  and  brush  the  affected  portion  of 
his  trousers.  Here  a  new  reverie  arrested  him;  he 
stood  with  the  brush  in  his  hand  for  some  time ;  then, 
not  having  used  it,  he  dropped  it  gently  upon  the 
bed,  lit  an  Orduma  cigarette,  descended,  and  went 
forth  to  the  quiet  street. 

As  he  walked  along  Julia's  Street  toward  Julia's 
Party,  there  was  something  in  his  mien  and  look 
more  dramatic  than  mere  sprightliness;  and  when 
he  came  within  sight  of  the  ineffable  house  and  saw 
its  many  lights  shining  before  him,  he  breathed  with 
profundity,  half  halting.  Again  he  murmured: 

"Oh,  years  so  fair;  oh,  night  so  rare! 

For  life  is  but  a  golden  dream  so  sweetly." 

At  the  gate  he  hesitated.     Perhaps — perhaps   he 


GENTLE  JULIA  153 

was  a  little  early.  It  might  be  better  to  walk  round 
the  block. 

He  executed  this  parade,  and  again  hesitated  at  the 
gate.  He  could  see  into  the  brightly  lighted  hall, 
beyond  the  open  double  doors;  and  it  contained 
nothing  except  its  usual  furniture.  Once  more  he 
walked  round  the  block.  The  hall  was  again  in 
the  same  condition.  Again  he  went  on. 

When  he  had  been  thrice  round  the  block  after 
that,  he  discovered  human  beings  in  the  hall;  they 
were  Florence,  in  a  gala  costume,  and  Florence's 
mother,  evidently  arrived  to  be  assistants  at  the 
party,  for,  with  the  helpful  advice  of  a  coloured 
manservant,  they  were  arranging  some  bunches  of 
flowers  on  two  hall  tables.  Their  leisurely  manner 
somewhat  emphasized  the  air  of  earliness  that  hung 
about  the  place,  and  Noble  thought  it  better  to 
continue  to  walk  round  the  block.  The  third  time 
after  that,  when  he  completed  his  circuit,  the  musi 
cians  were  just  arriving,  and  their  silhouettes,  headed 
by  that  of  the  burdened  bass  fiddler,  staggered  against 
the  light  of  the  glowing  doorway  like  a  fantasia  of 
giant  beetles.  Noble  felt  that  it  would  be  better 
to  let  them  get  settled,  and  therefore  walked  round 
the  block  again. 


154  GENTLE  JULIA 

Not  far  from  the  corner  above  Julia's,  as  he  passed, 
a  hoarse  and  unctuous  voice,  issuing  out  of  an  un- 
distinguishable  lawn,  called  his  name:  "Noble! 
Noble  Dill!"  And  when  Noble  paused,  Julia's 
Uncle  Joseph  came  waddling  forth  from  the  dimness 
and  rested  his  monstrous  arms  upon  the  top  of  the 
fence,  where  a  street  light  revealed  them  as  shirt- 
sleeved  and  equipped  with  a  palm-leaf  fan. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Noble?"  Mr.  Atwater  in 
quired  earnestly. 

"Matter?"    Noble  repeated.    "Matter?" 

"We're  kind  of  upset,"  said  Mr.  Atwater.  "My 
wife  and  I  been  just  sittin'  out  here  in  our  front  yard, 
not  doing  any  harm  to  anybody,  and  here  it's  nine 
times  we've  counted  you  passing  the  place — always 
going  the  same  way ! "  He  spoke  as  with  complaint, 
a  man  with  a  grievance  "It's  kind  of  ghostlike," 
he  added.  "We'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  what 
you  make  of  it." 

Noble  was  nonplussed.  "Why "  he  said. 

"Why " 

"How  do  you  get  back?  That's  the  mystery!" 
said  Mr.  Atwater.  "You're  always  walkin'  down 
street  and  never  up.  You  know  my  wife's  never  been 
too  strong  a  woman,  Noble,  and  all  this  isn't  doing 


GENTLE  JULIA  155 

her  any  good.  Besides,  we  sort  of  figured  out  that 
you  ought  really  to  be  at  Julia's  dance  this  evening." 

"I  am,"  said  Noble  nervously.  "I  mean  that's 
where  I'm  going.  I'm  going  there.  I'm  going 
there." 

"That's  what's  upsetting  us  so!"  the  fat  man  ex 
claimed.  "You  keep  on  going  there!  Just  when 
we've  decided  you  must  be  there,  at  last,  here  you 
come,  going  there  again.  Well,  don't  let  me  detain 
you.  But  if  you  do  decide  to  go  in,  some  time, 
Noble,  I'm  afraid  you  aren't  going  to  be  able  to  do 
much  dancing." 

Noble,  who  had  begun  to  walk  on,  halted  in  sudden 
panic.  Did  this  sinister  fear  of  Mr.  Atwater's  mean 
that,  as  an  uncle,  he  had  heard  Julia  was  suddenly 
ill? 

"Why  won't  I?"  he  asked  quickly.  "Is  any 
thing " 

"Your  poor  feet!"  said  Mr.  Atwater,  withdrawing. 
Good-night,  Noble." 

The  youth  went  on,  somewhat  disturbed;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  this  uncle,  though  Julia's,  was 
either  going  queer  in  the  head  or  had  chosen  a  poor 
occasion  to  be  facetious.  Next  time,  probably,  it 
would  be  better  to  walk  round  the  block  below  this. 


156  GENTLE  JULIA 

But  it  was  no  longer  advisable  to  walk  round  any 
block.  When  he  came  to  the  happy  gateway,  the 
tuning  of  instruments  and  a  fanfare  of  voices 
sounded  from  within  the  house;  girls  in  light  wraps 
were  fluttering  through  the  hall  with  young  men; 
it  was  "time  for  the  party!"  And  Noble  went  in. 

Throughout  the  accomplishment  of  the  entrance 
he  made,  his  outside  and  his  inside  were  directly  con 
tradictory.  His  inside  was  almost  fluttering:  there 
might  have  been  a  nest  of  nervous  young  birds  in 
his  chest;  but  as  he  went  upstairs  to  the  "gentle 
men's  dressing-room,"  to  leave  his  hat  and  stick, 
this  flopping  and  scrambling  within  him  was  never 
to  be  guessed  from  his  outside.  His  outside  was 
unsympathetic,  even  stately;  he  greeted  his  fellow 
guests  with  negligent  hauteur,  while  his  glance 
seemed  to  say:  "Only  peasantry  here!" 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 


stairway  was  crowded  as  he  descended; 


p         and  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  heads  and 

-**  shoulders  of  the  throng  below,  in  Julia's  hall, 
the  thought  came  to  him  that  since  he  had  the  first 
and  last  dances  and  supper  engaged  with  Julia,  the 
hostess,  this  was  almost  the  next  thing  to  being  the 
host.  It  was  a  pleasing  thought,  and  a  slight 
graciousness  now  flavoured  his  salutations. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  became  part  of  the  file 
of  young  people  who  were  moving  into  one  of  the 
large  rooms  where  Julia  stood  to  "receive."  And 
then,  between  two  heads  before  him,  he  caught  a 
first  glimpse  of  her; — and  all  the  young  birds  flutter 
ing  in  his  chest  burst  into  song;  his  heart  fainted, 
his  head  ballooned,  his  feet  seemed  to  dangle  from 
him  at  the  ends  of  two  strings. 

There  glowed  sapphire-eyed  Julia;  never  had  she 
been  prettier. 

The  group  closed,  shutting  out  the  vision,  and  he 
found  himself  able  to  dry  his  brow  and  get  back 


157 


158  GENTLE  JULIA 

his  breath  before  moving  forward  in  a  cold  and  aris 
tocratic  attitude.  Then  he  became  incapable  of  any 
attitude — he  was  before  her,  and  she  greeted  him. 
A  buzzing  of  the  universe  confused  him:  he  would 
have  stood  forever,  but  pressure  from  behind  pushed 
him  on;  and  so,  enveloped  in  a  scented  cloud,  he 
passed  into  a  corner.  He  tried  to  remember  what 
he  had  said  to  her,  but  could  not;  perhaps  it  would 
have  discouraged  him  to  know  that  all  he  had  said 
was,  "Well!" 

Now  there  rattled  out  a  challenge  of  drums;  loud 
music  struck  upon  the  air.  Starting  instantly  to 
go  to  Julia,  Noble's  left  leg  first  received  the  electric 
impulse  and  crossed  his  laggard  right ;  but  he  was  no 
pacer,  and  thus  stumbled  upon  himself  and  plunged. 
Still  convulsive,  he  came  headlong  before  her,  and 
was  the  only  person  near  who  remained  unaware  that 
his  dispersal  of  an  intervening  group  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  extreme  unconventionality.  Noble  knew 
nothing  except  that  this  was  his  dance  with  Her. 

Then  heaven  played  with  him.  She  came  close 
and  touched  him  exquisitely.  She  placed  a  lovely 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  her  other  lovely  cool  hand 
in  one  of  his.  The  air  filled  with  bursting  stars. 

They  danced. 


GENTLE  JULIA  159 

Noble  was  conscious  of  her  within  his  clasping 
arm,  but  conscious  of  her  as  nothing  human.  The 
fluffy  white  bodice  pressed  by  his  hand  seemed  to 
be  that  of  some  angel  doll;  the  charming  shoulder  that 
sometimes  touched  his  was  made  of  a  divine  mist. 
Only  the  pretty  head,  close  to  his,  was  actual;  the 
black-sapphire  eyes  gave  him  a  little  blue-black 

1  glance,  now  and  then,  and  seemed  to  laugh. 

In  truth,  they  did,  though  Julia's  lips  remained 

I  demure.  So  far  as  Noble  was  able  to  comprehend 
what  he  was  doing,  he  was  floating  rhythmically 
to  a  faint,  far  music;  but  he  was  almost  unconscious, 
especially  from  the  knees  down.  But  to  the  eye  of 
observers  incapable  of  perceiving  that  Noble  was 
floating,  it  appeared  that  he  was  out  of  step  most  of 
the  time,  and  danced  rather  hoppingly.  However, 
these  mannerisms  were  no  novelty  with  him,  and  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  girls  at  dances  usually  hurried 
impulsively  away  to  speak  to  somebody  when  they 
saw  him  coming.  One  such  creature  even  went  so 
far  as  to  whisper  to  Julia  now,  during  a  collision: 
"How'd  you  get  caught?" 

Julia  was  loyal;  she  gave  no  sign  of  compre- 
ihension,  but  valiantly  swung  onward  with  Noble, 
ibumped  and  bumping  everywhere,  in  spite  of  the 


160  GENTLE  JULIA 

most  extraordinary  and  graceful  dexterity  on  her 
part. 

"That's  one  reason  she's  such  a  terrible  belle,"  a 
damsel  whispered  to  another. 

"What  is?" 

"The  way  she'll  be  just  as  nice  to  anybody  like 
Noble  Dill  as  she  is  to  anybody,"  said  the  first. 
"Look  at  her  now:  she  won't  laugh  at  him  a  bit, 
though  everybody  else  is." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  laugh  either,"  said  the  other. 
"Not  in  Julia's  position.  I'd  be  too  busy  being 
afraid." 

"What  of?" 

"Of  getting  a  sprained  ankle!" 

It  is  well  that  telepathy  remains,  as  a  science, 
lethargic.  Speculation  sets  before  us  the  prospect 
of  a  Life  Beyond  in  which  every  thought  is  communi 
cated  without  the  intervention  of  speech:  a  state 
wherein  all  neighbours  and  neighbourhoods  would 
promptly  be  dispersed  and  few  friendships  long 
endure,  one  fears.  If  to  Noble  Dill's  active 
consciousness  had  penetrated  merely  the  things 
thought  about  him  and  his  dancing,  in  this  one 
short  period  of  time  before  the  music  for  that  dance 
stopped,  he  might  easily  have  been  understood  if 


GENTLE  JULIA  161 

he  had  hurried  forth,  obtained  explosives,  and 
blown  up  the  place,  himself  indeed  included.  As 
matters  providentially  were  in  reality,  when  the 
music  stopped  he  stood  confounded:  he  thought 
the  dance  had  just  begun. 

His  mouth  remained  open  until  the  necessary 
gestures  of  articulation  intermittently  closed  it 
as  he  said :  "  Oh  !  That  was  divine  !  " 

Too-gentle  Julia  agreed. 

"You  said  I  could  have  part  of  some  in  between 
the  first  and  last,"  he  reminded  her.  "Can  I  have 
the  first  part  of  the  next?" 

She  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  not.  The  next  is 
Mr.  Clairdyce's  and  I  really  promised  him  I  wouldn't 
give  any  of  his  away  or  let  anybody  cut  in." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Noble,  frowning  a  little,  "would 
you  be  willing  for  me  to  cut  in  on  the  third?  " 

"I'm  afraid  not.  That's  Newland  Sanders',  and 
I  promised  him  the  same  thing." 

"Well,  the  one  after  that?" 

"No,  that  one's  Mr.  Clairdyce's,  too." 

"It  is  ?"  Noble  was  greatly  disturbed. 

"Yes." 

"Two  that  quick  with  old  Baldy  Clairdyce!"  he 
exclaimed,  raising  his  voice,  but  unaware  of  the 


162  GENTLE  JULIA 

fervour  with  which  he  spoke.  "Two  with  that 
old " 

"Sh,  Noble,"  she  said,  though  she  laughed.  "He 
isn't  really  old;  he's  just  middle-aged,  and  only  the 
least  bit  bald,  just  enough  to  be  distinguished- 
looking.  " 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  think  of  him!"  he  re 
turned  with  a  vehemence  not  moderated.  "7  don't 
think  he's  distinguished-looking;  I  think  he's  simply 
and  plainly  a  regular  old '; 

"  Sh!"  Julia  warned  him  again.  "He's  standing 
with  some  people  just  behind  us,"  she  added. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Noble,  "can  I  cut  in  on  the 
next  one  after  that?  " 

She  consulted  a  surreptitious  little  card.  "I'm 
afraid  you'll  have  to  wait  till  quite  a  little  later  on, 
Noble.  That  one  is  poor  Mr.  Ridgely's.  I  prom 
ised  him  I  wouldn't 

"Then  can  I  cut  in  on  the  next  one  after  that?" 

"It's  Mr.  Clairdyce's,"  said  Julia — and  she  blushed. 

"My  goodness ! "  said  Noble.    "Oh,  my  goodness !" 

"Sh!  I'm  afraid  people " 

"Let's  go  out  on  the  porch,"  said  Noble,  whose  man 
ner  had  suddenly  become  desperate.  "Let's  go  out 
and  get  some  air  where  we  can  talk  this  thing  over." 


GENTLE  JULIA  163 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  better  not  just  now,"  she  returned, 
glancing  over  her  shoulder.  "You  see,  all  the  people 
aren't  here  yet." 

"You've  got  an  aunt  here,"  said  Noble,  "and  a 
sister-in-law  and  a  little  niece:  I  saw  'em.  They 

99 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  better  stay  indoors  just  now,"  she 
said  persuasively.  "We  can  talk  here  just  as  well." 

"We  can't!"  he  insisted  feverishly.  "We  can't, 
Julia!  I've  got  something  to  say,  Julia.  Julia, 
you  gave  me  the  first  dance  and  the  last  dance,  and 
of  course  sitting  together  at  supper,,  or  whatever  there 
is,  and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  means  it's  just 
the  same  as  if  you  weren't  giving  this  party  but  it 
was  somewhere  else  and  I  took  you  to  it,  and  it's  al 
ways  understood  you  never  dance  more  with  anybody 
else  than  the  one  you  went  with,  when  you  go  with 
that  person  to  a  place,  because  that's  the  rights  of 
it;  and  other  towns  it's  just  the  same  way;  they  do 
that  way  there,  just  the  same  as  here;  they  do  that 
way  everywhere,  because  nobody  else  has  got  a  right 
to  cut  in  and  dance  more  with  you  than  the  one 
you  go  with,  when  you  goes  to  a  place  with  that  one. 
Julia,  don't  you  see  that's  the  regular  way  it  is,  and 
the  only  fair  way  it  ought  to  be?" 


164  GENTLE  JULIA 

"What?" 

"Weren't  you  even  listening?"  he  cried. 

"Yes,  indeed,  but " 

"Julia,"  he  said  desperately,  "let's  go  out  on  the 
porch.  I  want  to  explain  just  the  way  I  feel.  Let's 
go  out  on  the  porch,  Julia.  If  we  stay  here,  some 
body's  just  bound  to  interrupt  us  any  minute  before  I 
can  explain  the  way  I " 

But  the  prophecy  was  fulfilled  even  before  it  was 
concluded.  A  group  of  loudly  chattering  girls  and 
their  escorts  of  the  moment  bore  down  upon  Julia, 
and  shattered  the  tete-a-tete.  Dislodged  from 
Julia's  side  by  a  large  and  eager  girl,  whom  he  had 
hated  ever  since  she  was  six  years  old  and  he  five, 
Noble  found  himself  staggering  in  a  kind  of  suburb; 
for  the  large  girl's  disregard  of  him,  as  she  shouldered 
in,  was  actually  physical,  and  too  powerful  for  him 
to  resist.  She  wished  to  put  her  coarse  arm  round 
Julia's  waist,  it  appeared,  and  the  whole  group  bur 
bled  and  clamoured:  the  party  was  perfictly  glorious; 
so  was  the  waxed  floor;  so  was  Julia,  my  dear,  so  was 
the  music,  the  weather,  and  the  din  they  made! 

Noble  felt  that  his  rights  were  being  outraged. 
Until  the  next  dance  began,  every  moment  of  her  time 
was  legally  his — yet  all  he  could  even  see  of  her  was 


GENTLE  JULIA  165 

the  top  of  her  head.    And  the  minutes  were  fly 
ing. 

He    stood    on   tiptoe,    thrust   his   head    forward 
over  the  large  girl's  odious  shoulder,  and  shouted: 
"Julia!  Let's  go  out  on  the  porch!" 
No  one  seemed  to  hear  him. 

"Julia " 

Boom  !  Rackety-#oom  /  The  drummer  walloped 
his  drums;  a  saxophone  squawked,  and  fiddles 
squealed.  Hereupon  appeared  a  tall  authoritative 
man,  at  least  thirty-two  years  old,  and  all  swelled 
up  with  himself,  as  interpreted  by  Noble  and  several 
other  friends  of  Julia's — though  this,  according  to 
quite  a  number  of  people  (all  feminine)  was  only 
another  way  of  saying  that  he  was  a  person  of  com 
manding  presence.  He  wore  a  fully  developed 
moustache,  an  easy  smile,  clothes  offensively  know 
ing;  and  his  hair  began  to  show  that  scarcity  which 
Julia  felt  gave  him  distinction — a  curious  theory, 
but  natural  to  her  age.  What  really  did  give  this 
!  Clairdyce  some  air  of  distinction,  however,  was  the 
I  calmness  with  which  he  walked  through  the  group 
!  that  had  dislodged  Noble  Dill,  and  the  assurance 
with  which  he  put  his  arm  about  Julia  and  swept  her 
away  in  the  dance. 


166  GENTLE  JULIA 

Noble  was  left  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
but  not  for  long.  Couples  charged  him,  and  he  be 
took  himself  to  the  wall.  The  party,  for  him,  was 
already  ruined. 

Sometimes,  as  he  stood  against  the  wall,  there 
would  be  swirled  to  him,  out  of  all  the  commingle- 
ments  of  other  scents,  a  faint,  faint  hint  of  helio 
trope  and  then  Julia  would  be  borne  masterfully  by, 
her  flying  skirts  just  touching  him.  And  sometimes, 
out  of  the  medley  of  all  other  sounds,  there  would 
reach  his  ear  a  little  laugh  like  a  run  of  lightly  plucked 
harp  strings,  and  he  would  see  her  shining  dark  hair 
above  her  partner's  shoulder  as  they  swept  again 
near  him  for  an  instant.  And  always,  though  she 
herself  might  be  concealed  from  him,  he  could  only 
too  painfully  mark  where  she  danced:  the  overtop 
ping  head  of  the  tall  Clairdyce  was  never  lost  to  view. 
The  face  on  the  front  part  of  that  disliked  head  wore 
continuously  a  confident  smile,  which  had  a  bad 
effect  on  Noble.  It  seemed  to  him  desecration  that 
a  man  with  so  gross  a  smile  should  be  allowed  to 
dance  with  Julia.  And  that  she  should  smile  back  at 
her  partner,  and  with  such  terrible  kindness — as 
Noble  twice  saw  her  smile — this  was  like  a  calamity 
happening  to  her  white  soul  without  her  knowing 


GENTLE  JULIA  167 

it.  If  she  should  ever  marry  that  man — well,  it 
would  be  the  old  story:  May  and  December!  Noble 
shuddered,  and  the  drums,  the  fiddles,  the  bass  fiddle, 
and  the  saxophone  seemed  to  have  an  evil  sound. 

When  the  music  stopped  he  caromed  hastily 
through  the  room  toward  Julia,  but  she  was  in  a 
thicket  of  her  guests  when  he  arrived,  and  for  several 
moments  Mr.  Clairdyce's  broad  back  kept  interven 
ing — almost  intentionally,  it  seemed.  When  Noble 
tried  to  place  himself  in  a  position  to  attract  Julia's 
attention,  this  back  moved,  too,  and  Noble's  nose  but 
pressed  black  cloth.  And  the  noise  everybody  made 
was  so  baffling  that,  in  order  to  be  heard,  Julia  herself 
was  shouting.  Finally  Noble  contrived  to  squirm 
round  the  obtrusive  back,  and  protruded  his  strained 
face  among  all  the  flushed  and  laughing  ones. 

"Julia,  I  got  to "  he  began. 

But  this  was  just  at  the  climax  of  a  story  that  three 
people  were  telling  at  the  same  time,  Julia  being  one 
of  them,  and  he  received  little  attention. 

"Julia,"  he  said  hoarsely;  "I  got  something  I 
want  to  tell  you  about " 

He  raised  his  voice:  "Julia,  come  on!  Let's  go 
out  on  the  porch  !  " 

Nobody  even  knew  that  he  was  there.     Neverthe- 


168  GENTLE  JULIA 

less,  the  tall  and  solid  Clairdyce  was  conscious  of  him, 
but  only,  it  proved,  as  one  is  conscious  of  something 
to  rest  upon.  His  elbow,  a  little  elevated,  was  at 
the  height  of  Noble's  shoulder,  and  this  heavy  elbow, 
without  its  owner's  direct  or  active  cognizance,  found 
for  itself  a  comfortable  support.  Then,  as  the 
story  reached  its  conclusion,  this  old  Clairdyce 
joined  the  general  mirth  so  heartily  as  to  find  himself 
quite  overcome,  and  he  allowed  most  of  his  weight 
to  depend  upon  the  supported  elbow.  Noble  sank 
like  feathers. 

"Here!  What  you  doin'?"  he  said  hotly.  "I'll 
thank  you  to  keep  off  o'  me!" 

Old  Baldy  recovered  his  balance  without  being 
aware  what  had  threatened  it,  while  his  elbow,  ap 
parently  of  its  own  volition,  groped  for  its  former 
pedestal.  Noble  evaded  it,  and  pushed  forward. 

"Julia,"  he  said.     "I  got  to  say  some " 

But  the  accursed  music  began  again,  and  horn 
rimmed  Newland  Sanders  already  had  his  arm  about 
her  waist.  They  disappeared  into  the  ruck  of 
dancers. 

"Well,  by  George!"  said  Noble.  "By  George, 
I'm  goin'  to  do  something!" 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

HE  WENT  outdoors  and  smoked  Orduma 
cigarettes,  one  after  the  other.  Dances 
and  intermissions  succeeded  each  other 
but  Noble  had  "enough  of  that,  for  one  while!"  So  he 
muttered. 

And  remembering  how  Julia  had  told  him  that  he 
was  killing  himself  with  cigarettes,  "All  right."  he 
said  now,  as  he  bitterly  lighted  his  fifth  at  the  spark 
of  the  fourth;— "I  hope  I  will!" 

"Lot  o'  difference  it'd  make!"  he  said,  as  he  lighted 
the  eighth  of  a  series  that  must,  all  told,  have  con 
tained  nearly  as  much  tobacco  as  a  cigar.  And, 
leaning  back  against  the  trunk  of  one  of  the  big  old 
walnut  trees  in  the  yard,  he  gazed  toward  the  house, 
where  the  open  window  nearest  him  splashed  with 
colour  like  a  bright  and  crowded  aquarium.  "To 
her,  anyway!"  he  added,  with  a  slight  remorse, 
remembering  that  his  mother  had  frequently  shown 
him  evidences  of  affection. 

Yes,  his  mother  would  care,  and  his  father  and 
sisters  would  be  upset,  but  Julia — when  the  friends 


170  GENTLE  JULIA 

of  the  family  were  asked  to  walk  by  for  a  last  look, 
would  she  be  one?  What  optimism  remained  to  him 
presented  a  sketch  of  Julia,  in  black,  borne  from  the 
room  in  the  arms  of  girl  friends  who  tried  in  vain  to 
hush  her;  but  he  was  unable  to  give  this  more  hopeful 
fragment  an  air  of  great  reality.  Much  more 
probably,  when  word  came  to  her  that  he  had  smoked 
himself  to  death,  she  would  be  a  bride,  dancing  at 
Niagara  Falls  with  her  bald  old  husband — and  she 
would  only  laugh  and  pause  to  toss  a  faded  rose  out 
of  the  window,  and  then  go  right  on  dancing.  But 
perhaps,  some  day,  when  tears  had  taught  her  the 
real  meaning  of  life  with  such  a  man 

"You— tow /" 

Noble  jumped.  Erom  the  darkness  of  the  yard 
beside  the  house  there  came  a  grievous  howl,  dis 
tressful  to  the  spinal  marrow,  a  sound  of  animal  pain. 
It  was  repeated  even  more  passionately,  and  another 
voice  was  also  heard,  one  both  hoarsely  bass  and 
falsetto  in  the  articulation  of  a  single  syllable. 
"Ouch!"  There  were  sounds  of  violent  scuffling, 
and  the  bass-falsetto  voice  cried:  "What's  that  you 
stuck  me  with?"  and  another:  "Drag  her!  Drag  her 
back  by  her  feet!" 

These  alarms  came  from  the  almost  impenetrable 


GENTLE  JULIA  171 

shadows  of  the  small  orchard  beside  the  house;  and 
from  the  same  quarter  was  heard  the  repeated  con 
tact  of  a  heavy  body,  seemingly  wooden  or  metallic, 
with  the  ground;  but  high  over  this  there  rose  a 
shrieking:  "Help!  Help!  Oh,  Aa^-yulp!"  This 
voice  was  girlish.  "Hay-yulp  /" 

Noble  dashed  into  the  orchard,  and  at  once  fell 
prostrate  upon  what  seemed  a  log,  but  proved  to  be 
a  large  and  solidly  packed  ice-cream  freezer  lying 
on  its  side. 

Dark  forms  scrambled  over  the  fence  and  van 
ished,  but  as  Noble  got  to  his  feet  he  was  joined  by 
a  dim  and  smallish  figure  in  white — though  more 
light  would  have  disclosed  a  pink  sash  girdling  its 
middle.  It  was  the  figure  of  Miss  Florence  Atwater, 
seething  with  furious  agitations. 

"Vile  thieves!"  she  panted. 

"Who?"  Noble  asked,  brushing  at  his  knees, 
while  Florence  made  some  really  necessary  adjust 
ments  of  her  own  attire.  "Who  were  they?" 

"It  was  my  own  cousin,  Herbert,  and  that  nasty 
little  Henry  Rooter  and  their  gang.  Herbert  thinks 
he  hass  to  act  perfectly  horrable  all  the  time,  now 
his  voice  is  changing!"  said  Florence,  her  emotion 
not  abated.  "Tried  to  steal  this  whole  ice-cream 


172  GENTLE  JULIA 

freezer  off  the  back  porch  and  sneak  it  over  the  fence 
and  eat  it!  I  stuck  a  pretty  long  pin  in  Herbert  and 
two  more  of  'em,  every  bit  as  far  as  it  would  go." 
And  in  the  extremity  of  her  indignation,  she  added: 
"The  dirty  robbers!" 

"Did  they  hurt  you?" 

"You  bet  your  life  they  didn't!"  the  child  re 
sponded.  "Tried  to  drag  me  back  to  the  house! 
By  the  feet!  I  guess  I  gave  'em  enough  o'  that!  " 

Then,  tugging  the  prostrate  freezer  into  an  up 
right  position,  she  exclaimed  darkly:  "I  expect 
I  gave  ole  Mister  Herbert  and  some  of  the  others  of 
'em  just  a  few  kicks  they  won't  be  in  such  a  hurry  to 
forget!"  And  in  spite  of  his  own  gloomy  condition, 
Noble  was  able,  upon  thinking  over  matters,  to 
spare  some  commiseration  for  Herbert  and  his 
friend,  that  nasty  little  Henry  Rooter  and  their  gang. 
They  seemed  to  have  been  at  a  disadvantage. 

"I  suppose  I'd  better  carry  the  freezer  back  to 
the  kitchen  porch,"  he  said.  "Somebody  may 
want  it." 

"'Somebody'!"  Florence  exclaimed.  "Why, 
there's  only  two  of  these  big  freezers,  and  if  I  hadn't 
happened  to  suspeck  somep'n  and  be  lay  in'  for  those 
vile  thieves,  half  the  party  wouldn't  get  any!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  173 

And  as  an  afterthought,  when  Noble  had  pantingly 
restored  the  heavy  freezer  to  its  place  by  the  kitchen 
door,  she  said:  "Or  else  they'd  had  to  have  such 
little  saucers  of  it  nobody  would  of  been  any  way 
like  satisfied,  and  prob'ly  all  the  fam'ly  that's  here 
assisting  would  of  had  to  go  without  any  at  all. 
That'd  'a'  been  the  worst  of  it!" 

She  opened  the  kitchen  door,  and  to  those  within 
explained  loudly  what  dangers  had  been  averted, 
directing  that  both  freezers  be  placed  indoors  under 
guard;  then  she  rejoined  Noble,  who  was  walking 
slowly  back  to  the  front  yard. 

"I  guess  it's  pretty  lucky  you  happened  to  be 
hangin'  around  out  here,"  she  said.  "I  guess  that's 
about  the  luckiest  thing  ever  happened  to  me.  The 
way  it  looks  to  me,  I  guess  you  saved  my  life.  If 
you  hadn't  chased  'em  away,  I  wouldn't  been  a  bit 
surprised  if  that  gang  would  killed  me!" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Noble.     "They  wouldn't " 

"You  don't  know  'em  like  I  do,"  the  romantic 
child  assured  him.  "I  know  that  gang  pretty  well, 
and  I  wouldn't  been  a  bit  surprised.  I  wouldn't 
been!" 

"But " 

She    tossed    her    head,    signifying    recklessness. 


174  GENTLE  JULIA 

"  Guess  'twouldn't  make  much  difference  to  anybody 
particular,  whether  they  did  or  not,"  said  this  strange 
Florence. 

Noble  regarded  her  with  astonishment;  they  had 
reached  the  front  yard,  and  paused  under  the  trees 
where  the  darkness  was  mitigated  by  the  light  from 
the  shining  windows.  "Why,  you  oughtn't  to 
talk  that  way,  Florence,"  he  said.  "Think  of  your 
mamma  and  papa  and  your — and  your  Aunt  Julia." 

She  tossed  her  head  again.  "Pooh!  They'd 
all  of  'em  just  say:  'Good  ribbons  to  bad  rubbish,' 
I  guess!"  However,  she  seemed  far  from  despondent 
about  this;  in  fact,  she  was  naturally  pleased  with 
her  position  as  a  young  girl  saved  from  the  power 
of  ruffians  by  a  rescuer  who  was  her  Very  Ideal. 
"I  bet  if  I  died,  they  wouldn't  even  have  a  funeral," 
she  said  cheerfully.  "They'd  proba'ly  just  leave 
me  lay." 

The  curiosities  of  the  human  mind  are  found 
not  in  high  adventure:  they  are  everywhere  in  the 
commonplace.  Never  for  a  moment  did  it  strike 
Noble  Dill  that  Florence's  turn  to  the  morbid  bore 
any  resemblance  to  his  recent  visions  of  his  own 
funeral.  He  failed  to  perceive  that  the  two  phe 
nomena  were  produced  out  of  the  same  laboratory 


GENTLE  JULIA  175 

jar  and  were  probably  largely  chemical,  at 
that. 

"Why,  Florence!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  a 
dreadful  way  to  feel.  I'm  sure  your — your  Aunt 
Julia  loves  you." 

"Oh,  well,"  Florence  returned  lightly; — "maybe 
she  does.  I  don't  care  whether  she  does  or  not." 
And  now  she  made  a  deduction,  the  profundity  of 
which  his  condition  made  him  unable  to  perceive. 
"It  makes  less  difference  to  anybody  whether  their 
aunts  love  'em  or  not  than  whether  pretty  near  any 
body  else  at  all  does." 

"But  not  your  Aunt  Julia,"  he  urged.  "Your 
Aunt  Julia " 

"I  don't  care  whether  she  does  than  any  other 
aunt  I  got,"  said  Florence.  "All  of  'em's  just 
aunts,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"But,  Florence,  your  Aunt  Julia " 

"She's  nothin'  in  the  world  but  my  aunt,"  Florence 
insisted,  and  her  emphasis  showed  that  she  was  trying 
hard  to  make  him  understand.  "She's  just  the 
same  as  all  of  'em.  I  don't  get  anything  more  from 
her  than  I  do  from  any  the  rest  of  'em." 

Her  auditor  was  dumfounded,  but  not  by  Flor 
ence's  morals.  The  cold-blooded  calculation  upon 


176  GENTLE  JULIA 

which  her  family  affections  seemed  to  be  founded,  this 
aboriginal  straightforwardness  of  hers,  passed  over 
him.  What  shocked  him  was  her  appearing  to  see 
Julia  as  all  of  a  piece  with  a  general  lot  of  ordinary 
aunts.  Helplessly,  he  muttered  again: 

"But  your  Aunt  Julia " 

"There  she  is  now,"  said  Florence,  pointing  to 
the  window  nearest  them.  "They've  stopped  danc 
ing  for  a  while  so's  that  ole  Mister  Clairdyce  can 
get  a  chance  to  sing  somep'n.  Mamma  told  me  he 
was  goin'  to." 

Dashing  chords  sounded  from  a  piano  invisible 
to  Noble  and  his*  companion ;  the  windows  exhibited 
groups  of  deferentially  expectant  young  people; 
and  then  a  powerful  barytone  began  a  love  song. 
From  the  yard  the  singer  could  not  be  seen,  but 
Julia  could  be:  she  stood  in  the  demurest  attitude; 
and  no  one  needed  to  behold  the  vocalist  to  know 
that  the  scoundrel  was  looking  pointedly  and  ro 
mantically  at  her. 

"  Dee-urra-face  that  holds  soswee  tasmile  for  me, 
Wairyew  nah  tmine  how  darrrk  the  worrrl  dwooed  be  I " 

To  Noble,  suffering  at  every  pore,  this  was  less 
a  song  than  a  bellowing;  and  in  truth  the  confident 


GENTLE  JULIA  177 

Mr.  Clairdyce  did  "let  his  voice  out,"  for  he  was 
seldom  more  exhilarated  than  when  he  shook 
the  ceiling.  The  volume  of  sound  he  released  up 
on  his  climaxes  was  impressive,  and  the  way  he 
slid  up  to  them  had  a  great  effect,  not  indoors 
alone,  but  upon  Florence,  enraptured  out  under 
the  trees. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  be-^ow-tif ul ! "  she  murmured. 

Her  humid  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Noble,  who  was 
unconscious  of  the  honour.  Florence  was  sus 
ceptible  to  anything  purporting  to  be  music,  and 
this  song  moved  her.  Throughout  its  delivery  from 
Mr.  Clairdyce' s  unseen  chest,  her  large  eyes  dwelt 
upon  Noble,  and  it  is  not  at  all  impossible  that 
she  was  applying  the  tender  words  to  him,  just  as 
the  vehement  Clairdyce  was  patently  addressing 
them  to  Julia.  On  he  sang,  while  Noble,  staring 
glassily  at  the  demure  lady,  made  a  picture  of  him 
self  leaping  unexpectedly  through  the  window,  strid 
ing  to  the  noisy  barytone,  striking  him  down,  and 
after  stamping  on  him  several  times,  explaining: 
"There!  That's  for  your  insolence  to  our  hostess!" 
But  he  did  not  actually  permit  himself  these  solaces; 
jhe  only  clenched  and  unclenched  his  fingers  several 
I  times,  and  continued  to  listen. 


178  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Geev  a-mee  yewr  ra-smile, 
The  luv  va-ligh  TIN  yew  rise, 
Life  cooed  not  hold  a  fairrerr  paradise. 

Geev  a-mee  the  righ  to  luv  va-yew  all  the  wile, 
My  worrrlda  for  AIV-vorr9 

The  sunshigh  NUV  vyewr-ra-smile! " 

The  conclusion  was  thunderous,  and  as  a  great 
noise  under  such  circumstances  is  an  automatic 
stimulant  of  enthusiasm,  the  applause  was  thun 
derous  too.  Several  girls  were  unable  to  subdue 
their  outcries  of  "Charming!"  and  " JFon-derf  1 ! "— 
not  even  after  Mr.  Clairdyce  had  begun  to  sing  the 
same  song  as  an  encore. 

When  this  was  concluded,  a  sigh,  long  and  deep, 
was  heard  under  the  trees.  It  came  from  Florence. 
Her  eyes,  wanly  gleaming,  like  young  oysters  in 
the  faint  light,  were  still  fixed  on  Noble;  and  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  just  now  there  was  at  least 
one  person  in  the  world,  besides  his  mother,  who  saw 
him  in  a  glamour  as  something  rare,  obs,  exquisite, 
and  elegant.  "I  think  that  was  the  most  be-you- 
tiful  thing  I  ever  heard!"  she  said;  and  then,  noting  a 
stir  within  the  house,  she  became  practical.  " They're 
starting  refreshments,"  she  said.  "We  better  hurry 


GENTLE  JULIA  179 

in,  Mr.  Dill,  so's  to  get  good  places.  Thanks  to  me, 
there's  plenty  to  go  round." 

She  moved  toward  the  house,  but,  observing  that 
he  did  not  accompany  her,  paused  and  looked  back. 
"Aren't  you  goin'  to  come  in,  Mr.  Dill?" 

"I  guess  not.     Don't  tell  any  one  I'm  out  here." 

"I  won't.  But  aren't  you  goin'  to  come  in 
for " 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  I'm  going  to  wait  out 
here  a  while  longer." 

"But,"  she  said,  "it's  refreshments  /" 

"I  don't  want  any.  I — I'm  going  to  smoke  some 
more,  instead." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully,  then  even  more  wist- 
i  fully  toward  the  house.  Evidently  she  was  of  a 
divided  mind:  her  feeling  for  Noble  fought  with  her 
feeling  for  "refreshments."  Such  a  struggle  could 
not  endure  for  long:  a  whiff  of  coffee  conjured  her 
nose,  and  a  sound  of  clinking  china  witched  her  ear. 
"Well,"  she  said,  "I  guess  I  ought  to  have  some 
nourishment,"  and  betook  herself  hurriedly  into  the 
house. 

Noble  lit  another  Orduma.  He  would  follow  the 
line  of  conduct  he  had  marked  out  for  himself:  he 
would  not  take  his  place  by  Julia  for  the  supper  in- 


1»U  IjrJ^lMl^iir    JUi/lA 

terval — perhaps  that  breach  of  etiquette  would 
"show"  her.  He  could  see  her  no  longer — she  had 
moved  out  of  range — but  he  imagined  her,  asking 
everywhere:  "Hasn't  any  one  seen  Mr.  Dill?" 
And  he  thought  of  her  as  biting  her  lip  nervously, 
perhaps,  and  replying  absently  to  sallies  and  quips — 
perhaps  even  having  to  run  upstairs  to  her  own  room 
to  dash  something  sparkling  from  her  eyes,  and, 
maybe,  to  look  angrily  in  her  glass  for  an  instant  and 
exclaim,  "Fool!"  For  Julia  was  proud,  and  not 
used  to  be  treated  in  this  way. 

He  felt  the  least  bit  soothed,  and,  lightly  flicking 
the  ash  from  his  Orduma  with  his  little  finger,  an 
act  indicating  some  measure  of  restored  composure, 
he  strolled  to  the  other  side  of  the  house  and 
brought  other  fields  of  vision  into  view  through 
other  windows.  Abruptly  his  stroll  came  to  an 
end. 

There  sat  Julia,  flushed  and  joyous,  finishing  her 
supper  in  company  with  old  Baldy  Clairdyce,  New- 
land  Sanders,  George  Plum,  seven  or  eight  other 
young  gentlemen,  and  some  inconsidered  adhering 
girls — the  horrible  barytone  sitting  closest  of  all  to 
Julia.  Moreover,  upon  that  very  moment  the  or 
chestra,  in  the  hall  beyond,  thought  fit  to  pay  the  re- 


GENTLE  JULIA  181 

cent  vocalist  a  sickening  compliment,  and  began  to 
play  "The  Sunshine  of  Your  Smile." 

Thereupon,  with  Julia  herself  first  taking  up  the  air 
in  a  dulcet  soprano,  all  of  the  party,  including  the 
people  in  the  other  rooms,  sang  the  dreadful  song 
in  chorus,  the  beaming  Clairdyce  exerting  such  de 
moniac  power  as  to  be  heard  tremendously  over  all 
other  voices.  He  had  risen  for  this  effort,  and  to 
Noble,  below  the  window,  everything  in  his  mouth 
was  visible. 

The  lone  listener  had  a  bitter  thought,  though  it 
was  a  longing,  rather  than  a  thought.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  wished  that  he  had  adopted  the 
profession  of  dentistry. 

"Geev  a-mee  the  right  to  luv  va-yew  ALL   the  wile, 

My  worrrlda  for  AlV-vorr, 
The  sunsigh  NUV  vyewr  ra-smile  /" 

The  musicians  swung  into  dance  music;  old  Baldy 
closed  the  exhibition  with  an  operatic  gesture  (for 
which  alone,  if  for  nothing  else,  at  least  one  watcher 
thought  the  showy  gentleman  deserved  hanging), 
and  this  odious  gesture  concluded  with  a  seizure  of 
Julia's  hand.  She  sprang  up  eagerly;  he  whirled 


her  away,  and  the  whole  place  fluctuated  in  the  dance 
once  more. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Noble,  between  his  teeth — 
"now,  I  am  goin'  to  do  something!" 

He  turned  his  back  upon  that  painful  house, 
walked  out  to  the  front  gate,  opened  it,  passed 
through,  and  looked  southward.  Not  quite  two 
blocks  away  there  shone  the  lights  of  a  corner  drug 
store,  still  open  to  custom  though  the  hour  was 
nearing  midnight.  He  walked  straight  to  the  door 
of  this  place,  which  stood  ajar,  but  paused  before 
entering,  and  looked  long  and  nervously  at  the 
middle-aged  proprietor  who  was  unconscious  of  his 
regard,  and  lounged  in  a  chair,  drowsily  stroking 
a  cat  upon  his  lap.  Noble  walked  in. 

"Good  evening,"  said  the  proprietor,  rising  and 
brushing  himself  languidly.  "Cat  hairs,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "Sheddin',  I  reckon."  Then,  as 
he  went  behind  the  counter,  he  inquired:  "How's 
the  party  goin'  off?" 

"  It's— it's "  Noble  hesitated.  "  I  stepped  in 

to-to " 

The  druggist  opened  a  glass  case.  "Aw  right," 
he  said,  blinking,  and  tossed  upon  the  counter  a 
package  of  Orduma  cigarettes.  "Old  Atwater'd 


GENTLE  JULIA  183 

have  convulsions,  I  reckon,"  he  remarked,  "if  he 
had  to  lay  awake  and  listen  to  all  that  noise.  Price 
ain't  changed,"  he  added,  referring  humorously  to 
the  purchase  he  mistakenly  supposed  Noble  wished 
to  make.  "F'teen  cents,  same  as  yesterday  and 
the  day  before." 

Noble  placed  the  sum  upon  the  counter.  "I — 
I  was  thinking "  He  gulped. 

"Huh?"  said  the  druggist  placidly,  for  he  was 
too  sleepy  to  perceive  the  strangeness  of  his  cus 
tomer's  manner. 

Noble  lighted  an  Orduma  with  an  unsteady  hand, 
leaned  upon  the  counter,  and  inquired  in  a  voice  that 
he  strove  to  make  casual:  "Is — is  the  soda  foun 
tain  still  running  this  late?" 

"Sure." 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  Noble.  "I  suppose  you 
have  more  calls  for  soda  water  than  you  do  for — 
for — for  real  liquor?" 

The  druggist  laughed.  "Funny  thing:  I  reckon 
we  don't  have  more'n  half  the  calls  for  real  liquor 
than  what  we  used  to  before  we  went  dry." 

Noble  breathed  deeply.  "I  s'pose  you  probably 
sell  quite  a  good  deal  of  it  though,  at  that.  By 
the  glass,  I  mean — such  as  a  glass  of  something  kind 


184  GENTLE  JULIA 

of  strong — like — like  whiskey.  That  is,  I  sort  of 
supposed  so.  I  mean  I  thought  I'd  ask  you  about 
this." 

"No,"  said  the  druggist,  yawning.  "It  never 
did  pay  well — not  on  this  corner,  anyhow.  Once 
there  used  to  be  a  little  money  in  it,  but  not  much." 
He  roused  himself  somewhat.  "Well,  it's  about 
twelve.  Anything  you  wanted  'cept  them  Ordumas 
before  I  close  up?" 

Noble  gulped  again.  He  had  grown  pale.  "I 

want "  he  said  abruptly,  then  his  heart  seemed  to 

fail  him.  "I  want  a  glass  of "  Once  more  he 

stopped  and  swallowed.  His  shoulders  drooped,  and 
he  walked  across  to  the  soda  fountain.  "Well," 
he  said,  "I'll  take  a  chocolate  sundae." 

The  thought  of  going  back  to  Julia's  party  was 
unendurable,  yet  a  return  was  necessary  on  account 
of  his  new  hat,  the  abandonment  of  which  he  did  not 
for  a  moment  consider.  But  about  half  way,  as  he 
walked  slowly  along,  he  noticed  an  old  horse-block 
at  the  curbstone,  and  sat  down  there.  He  could 
hear  the  music  at  Julia's,  sometimes  loud  and  close  at 
hand,  sometimes  seeming  to  be  almost  a  mile  away. 
"All  right!"  he  said,  so  bitter  had  he  grown. 
"Dance!  Go  on  and  dance!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  185 

.  .  .  When  finally  he  reentered  Julia's  gate, 
he  shuffled  up  the  walk,  his  head  drooping,  and 
ascended  the  steps  and  crossed  the  veranda  and  the 
threshold  of  the  front  door  in  the  same  manner. 

Julia  stood  before  him. 

"Noble  DM!"  she  exclaimed. 

As  for  Noble,  his  dry  throat  refused  its  office;  he 
felt  that  he  might  never  be  able  to  speak  to  Julia 
again,  even  if  he  tried. 

"Where  in  the  world  have  you  been  all  evening?" 
she  cried. 

"Why,  Jew-Julia!"  he  quavered.  "Did  you  no 
tice  that  I  was  gone?" 

"Did  I  'notice'!"  she  said.  "You  never  came 
near  me  all  evening  after  the  first  dance!  Not  even 
at  supper!" 

"You  wouldn't— you  didn't "  he  faltered. 

"You  wouldn't  do  anything  all  evening  except  dance 
with  that  old  Clairdyce  and  listen  to  him  trying 
to  sing." 

But  Julia  would  let  no  one  suffer  if  she  could  help 
it;  and  she  could  always  help  Noble.  She  made  her 
eyes  mysterious  and  used  a  voice  of  honey  and  roses. 
"You  don't  think  I'd  rather  have  danced  with  him, 
do  you,  Noble?" 


186  GENTLE  JULIA 

Immediately  sparks  seemed  to  crackle  about  his 
head.  He  started. 

"mat?"  he  said. 

The  scent  of  heliotrope  enveloped  him;  she  laughed 
her  silver  harp-strings  laugh,  and  lifted  her  arms 
toward  the  dazzled  young  man.  "It's  the  last  dance," 
she  said.  "Don't  you  want  to  dance  it  with  me?" 

Then  to  the  spectators  it  seemed  that  Noble 
Dill  went  hopping  upon  a  waxed  floor  and  upon 
Julia's  little  slippers;  he  was  bumped  and  bumping 
everywhere;  but  in  reality  he  floated  in  Elysian 
ether,  immeasurably  distant  from  earth,  his  hand 
just  touching  the  bodice  of  an  angelic  doll. 

Then,  on  his  way  home,  a  little  later,  with  his  new 
hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  stick  swinging 
from  his  hand,  and  a  semi-fragrant  Orduma  between 
his  lips,  his  condition  was  precisely  as  sweet  as  the 
condition  in  which  he  had  walked  to  the  party. 

No  echoes  of  "The  Sunshine  of  Your  Smile" 
cursed  his  memory — that  lover's  little  memory  fresh 
washed  in  heliotrope — and  when  his  mother  came 
to  his  door,  after  he  got  home,  and  asked  him  if  he'd 
had  "a  nice  time  at  the  party,"  he  said: 
"Just  glorious!"  and  believed  it. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

IT  WAS  a  pretty  morning,  two  weeks  after  Julia's 
Dance;  and  blue  and  lavender  shadows,  frayed 
with  mid-summer  sunshine,  waggled  gayly  across 
the  grass  beneath  the  trees  of  the  tiny  orchard,  but 
trembled  with  timidity  as  they  hurried  over  the 
abnormal  surfaces  of  Mrs.  Silver  as  she  sat  upon  the 
steps  of  the  "back  porch."  Her  right  hand  held  in 
security  one  end  of  a  leather  leash;  the  other  end  of 
the  leash  was  fastened  to  a  new  collar  about  the  neck 
of  an  odd  and  fascinating  dog.  Seated  upon  the 
brick  walk  at  her  feet,  he  was  regarding  her  with  a 
gravity  that  seemed  to  discomfort  her.  She  was 
unable  to  meet  his  gaze,  and  constantly  averted  her 
own  whenever  it  furtively  descended  to  his.  In  fact, 
her  expression  and  manner  were  singular,  denoting 
embarrassment,  personal  hatred,  and  a  subtle  be- 
dazzlement.  She  could  not  look  at  him,  yet  could 
not  keep  herself  from  looking  at  him.  There  was 
something  here  that  arose  out  of  the  depths  of 

natural  character;  it  was  intrinsic  in  the  two  per 
is? 


188  GENTLE  JULIA 

sonalities,  that  is  to  say;  and  was  in  addition  to  the 
bitterness  consequent  upon  a  public  experience,  just 
past,  which  had  been  brought  upon  Mrs.  Silver 
partly  by  the  dog's  appearance  (in  particular  the  style 
and  colour  of  his  hair)  and  partly  by  his  unprece 
dented  actions  in  her  company  upon  the  highway. 

She  addressed  him  angrily,  yet  with  a  profound 
uneasiness. 

"Dog!"  she  said.  "You  ain't  feelin'  as  skittish  as 
whut  you  did,  li'l  while  ago,  is  you?  My  glory!  I 
dess  would  like  to  lay  my  han'  to  you'  hide  once, 
Mister!  I  take  an'  lam  you  this  livin'  minute  if  I 
right  sho'  you  wouldn't  take  an'  bite  me." 

She  jerked  the  leash  vindictively,  upon  which  the 
dog  at  once  "sat  up"  on  his  haunches,  put  his  fore- 
paws  together  above  his  nose,  in  an  attitude  of  prayer, 
and  looked  at  her  inscrutably  from  under  the  great 
bang  of  hair  that  fell  like  a  black  chrysanthemum 
over  his  forehead.  Beneath  this  woolly  lambrequin 
his  eyes  were  visible  as  two  garnet  sparks  of  which 
the  coloured  woman  was  only  too  nervously  aware. 
She  gasped. 

"Look-a-here,  dog,  who's  went  an'  ast  you  to  take 
an'  pray  fer 'em?" 

He  remained  motionless  and  devout. 


GENTLE  JULIA  189 

"My  goo'niss!"  she  said  to  him.  "If  you  goin' 
keep  on  thisaway  whut  you  is  been,  I'm  goin'  to  up 
an'  go  way  from  here,  ri'  now!"  Then  she  said  a 
remarkable  thing.  "Listen  here,  Mister!  I  ain' 
never  los'  no  gran'child,  an'  I  ain'  goin'  'dop'  no 
stranger  fer  one,  neither!" 

The  explanation  rests  upon  the  looks  and  manners 
of  him  whom  she  addressed.  This  dog  was  of  a  kind 
at  the  top  of  dog  kingdoms.  His  size  was  neither 
insignificant  nor  great;  probably  his  weight  would 
have  been  between  a  fourth  and  a  third  of  a  St. 
Bernard's.  He  had  the  finest  head  for  adroit  think 
ing  that  is  known  among  dogs;  and  he  had  an  athletic 
body,  the  forepart  muffled  and  lost  in  a  mass  of 
corded  black  fleece,  but  the  rest  of  him  sharply 
clipped  from  the  chest  aft;  and  his  trim,  slim  legs 
were  clipped,  though  tufts  were  left  at  his  ankles, 
and  at  the  tip  of  his  short  tail,  with  two  upon  his  hips, 
like  fanciful  buttons  of  an  imaginary  jacket;  for  thus 
have  such  dogs  been  clipped  to  a  fashion  proper  and 
comfortable  for  them  ever  since  (and  no  doubt  long 
before)  an  Imperial  Roman  sculptor  so  chiselled  one 
in  bas-relief.  In  brief,  this  dog,  who  caused  Kitty 
Silver  so  much  disquietude,  as  she  sat  upon  the 
back  steps  at  Mr.  Atwater's,  belonged  to  that  species 


190  GENTLE  JULIA 

of  which  no  Frenchman  ever  sees  a  specimen  with 
out  smiling  and  murmuring:  "Caniche!"  He  was 
that  golden-hearted  little  clown  of  all  the  world,  a 
French  Poodle. 

To  arrive  at  what  underlay  Mrs.  Silver's  declara 
tion  that  she  had  never  lost  a  grandchild  and  had  no 
intention  of  adopting  a  stranger  in  the  place  of  one, 
it  should  be  first  understood  that  in  many  respects 
she  was  a  civilized  person.  The  quality  of  savagery, 
barbarism,  or  civilization  in  a  tribe  may  be  tested 
by  the  relations  it  characteristically  maintains  with 
domestic  animals;  and  tribes  that  eat  dogs  are  often 
inferior  to  those  inclined  to  ceremonial  cannibalism. 
Likewise,  the  civilization,  barbarism,  or  savagery  of 
an  individual  may  be  estimated  by  the  same  test, 
which  sometimes  gives  us  evidence  of  sporadic  re 
versions  to  mud.  Such  reversions  are  the  stomach 
priests:  whatever  does  not  minister  to  their  own 
bodily  inwards  is  a  "parasite."  Dogs  are  "para 
sites";  they  should  not  live,  because  to  fat  and  eat 
them  somehow  appears  uncongenial.  "Kill  Dogs  and 
Feed  Pigs,"  they  write  to  the  papers,  and,  with  a 
Velasquez  available,  would  burn  it  rather  than  go 
chilly.  "Kill  dogs,  feed  pigs,  and  let  me  eat  the  pigs !" 
they  cry,  even  under  no  great  stress,  these  stern 


GENTLE  JULIA  191 

economists  who  have  not  noticed  how  wasteful  the 
Creator  is  proved  to  be  if  He  made  themselves. 
They  take  the  strictly  intestinal  view  of  life.  It  is 
not  intelligent;  parasite  bacilli  will  get  them  in  the 
end. 

Mrs.  Silver  was  not  of  these.  True,  she  sometimes 
professed  herself  averse  to  all  "animals,"  but  this 
meant  nothing  more  than  her  unwillingness  to  have 
her  work  increased  by  their  introduction  into  the 
Atwater  household.  No;  the  appearance  of  the  dog 
had  stirred  something  queer  and  fundamental 
within  her.  All  coloured  people  look  startled  the 
first  time  they  see  a  French  Poodle,  but  there  is  a 
difference.  Most  coloured  men  do  not  really  worry 
much  about  being  coloured,  but  many  coloured 
women  do.  In  the  expression  of  a  coloured  man,  when 
he  looks  at  a  black  and  woolly  French  Poodle,  there  is 
something  fonder  and  more  indulgent  than  there  is 
in  the  expression  of  a  coloured  woman  when  she  looks 
at  one.  In  fact,  when  some  coloured  women  see  a 
French  Poodle  they  have  the  air  of  being  insulted. 

Now,  when  Kitty  Silver  had  first  set  eyes  on  this 
poodle,  an  hour  earlier,  she  looked,  and  plainly  was, 
dumfounded.  Never  in  her  life  had  she.  seen  a 
creature  so  black,  so  incredibly  black,  or  with  hair 


192  GENTLE  JULIA 

so  kinky,  so  incredibly  kinky.  Julia  had  not  ob 
served  Mrs.  Silver  closely  nor  paused  to  wonder  what 
thoughts  were  rousing  in  her  mind,  but  bade  her  take 
the  poodle  forth  for  exercise  outdoors  and  keep  him 
strictly  upon  the  leash.  Without  protest,  though 
wearing  a  unique  expression,  Kitty  obeyed;  she 
walked  round  the  block  with  this  mystifying  dog; 
and  during  the  promenade  had  taken  place  the  epi 
sode  that  so  upset  her  nerves. 

She  had  given  a  little  jerk  to  the  leash,  speaking 
sharply  to  the  poodle  in  reproach  for  some  lingering 
near  a  wonderful  sidewalk  smell,  imperceptible  to 
any  one  except  himself.  Instantly  the  creature  rose 
and  walked  beside  her  on  his  hind  legs.  He  con 
tinued  to  parade  in  this  manner,  rapidly,  but  never 
theless  as  if  casually,  without  any  apparent  incon 
venience;  and  Mrs.  Silver,  never  having  seen  a  dog 
do  such  a  thing  before,  for  more  than  a  yard  or  so, 
and  then  only  under  the  pressure  of  many  induce 
ments,  was  unfavourably  impressed.  In  fact,  she  had 
definitely  a  symptom  of  M.  Maeterlinck's  awed 
feeling  when  he  found  himself  left  alone  with  the 
talking  horses:  "With  whom  was  she?" 

"Look-a-here,  dog!"  she  said  breathlessly.  "Who 
you  tryin'  to  skeer?  You  ain't  no  person!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  193 

And  then  a  blow  fell.  It  came  from  an  elderly 
but  ever  undignified  woman  of  her  own  race,  who 
paused,  across  the  street,  and  stood  teetering  from 
side  to  side  in  joyful  agitation,  as  she  watched  the 
approach  of  Mrs.  Silver  with  her  woolly  little  com 
panion  beside  her.  When  this  smaller  silhouette  in 
ink  suddenly  walked  upright,  the  observer's  mouth 
fell  open,  and  there  was  reason  to  hope  that  it  might 
remain  so,  in  silence,  especially  as  several  other 
pedestrians  had  stopped  to  watch  the  poodle's  un 
called-for  exhibition.  But  all  at  once  the  elderly 
rowdy  saw  fit  to  become  uproarious. 

"Hoopsee!"  she  shouted.     "Oooh,  Gran'ma!" 

And  so,  when  the  poodle  "sat  up,"  unbid,  to  pray, 
while  Kitty  Silver  rested  upon  the  back  steps,  on  her 
return  from  the  excursion,  she  fiercely  informed  him 
that  she  had  never  lost  a  grandchild  and  that  she 
would  not  adopt  a  stranger  in  place  of  one;  her  im 
plication  being  that  he,  a  stranger,  had  been  sug 
gested  for  the  position  and  considered  himself  eligible 
for  it. 

He  continued  to  pray,  not  relaxing  a  hair. 

*' Listen  to  me,  dog,"  said  Kitty  Silver.  "Is  you 
a  dog,  or  isn't  you  a  dog?  Whut  is  you,  anyway?" 


194  GENTLE  JULIA 

But  immediately  she  withdrew  the  question.  "I 
ain't  astin'  you!"  she  exclaimed  superstitiously. 
"If  you  isn't  no  dog,  don't  you  take  an'  tell  me  whut 
you  is:  you  take  an'  keep  it  to  you'se'f,  'cause  I 
don'  want  to  listen  to  it!" 

For  the  garnet  eyes  beneath  the  great  black 
chrysanthemum  indeed  seemed  to  hint  that  their 
owner  was  about  to  use  human  language  in  a  human 
voice.  Instead,  however,  he  appeared  to  be  content 
with  his  little  exhibition,  allowed  his  forepaws  to 
return  to  the  ground,  and  looked  at  her  with  his  head 
wistfully  tilted  to  one  side.  This  reassured  her  and 
even  somewhat  won  her.  There  stirred  within  her 
that  curious  sense  of  relationship  evoked  from  the 
first  by  his  suggestive  appearance;  fondness  was  being 
born,  and  an  admiration  that  was  in  a  way  a  form  of 
Narcissism.  She  addressed  him  in  a  mollified  voice: 

"Whut  you  want  now?  Don'  tell  me  you'  hungry, 
'cause  you  awready  done  et  two  dog  biskit  an'  big 
saucer  milk.  Whut  you  stick  you'  ole  black  face 
cross  ways  at  me  fer,  honey?" 

But  just  then  the  dog  rose  to  look  pointedly 
toward  the  corner  of  the  house.  "Somebody's  com 
ing,"  he  meant. 

"Who  you  spectin',  li'l  dog?"  Mrs.  Silver  inquired. 


GENTLE  JULIA  195 

Florence  and  Herbert  came  round  the  house,  Her 
bert  trifling  with  a  tennis  ball  and  carrying  a  racket 
under  his  arm.  Florence  was  peeling  an  orange. 

"For  Heavenses'  sakes!"  Florence  cried.  "Kitty 
Silver,  where  on  earth'd  this  dog  come  from?" 

"B'long  you'  Aunt  Julia." 

"When'dshegethim?" 

"Dess  to-day." 

"Who  gave  him  to  her?" 

"She  ain't  say  in'." 

"You  mean  she  won't  tell?" 

"She  ain't  sayin',"  Kitty  Silver  repeated.  "I 
ast  her.  I  say,  I  say:  'Miss  Julia,  ma'am,'  I  say, 
"Miss  Julia,  ma'am,  who  ever  sen'  you  sech  a  un- 
landish-lookin'  dog?'  I  say.  All  she  say  when  I 
ast  her:  'Nemmine!'  she  say,  dess  thataway.  'Nem- 
mine!'  she  say.  I  reckon  she  ain't  goin'  tell  nobody 
who  give  her  this  dog." 

"He's  certainly  a  mighty  queer-lookin'  dog,"  said 
Herbert.  "I've  seen  a  few  like  that,  but  I  can't 
remember  where.  What  kind  is  he,  Kitty  Silver?  " 

"Miss  Julia  tell  me  he  a  poogle  dog." 

"A  poodle,"  Florence  corrected  her,  and  then 
turned  to  Herbert  in  supercilious  astonishment.  "A 
French  Poodle!  My  goodness!  I  should  think  you 


196  GENTLE  JULIA 

were  old  enough  to  know  that  much,  anyway — 
goin'  on  fourteen  years  old!" 

"Well,  I  did  know  it,"  he  declared.  "I  kind 
of  knew  it,  anyhow;  but  I  sort  of  forgot  it  for  once. 
Do  you  know  if  he  bites,  Kitty  Silver?  " 

She  was  noncommittal.     "He  ain't  bit  nobody 

yit." 

"I  don't  believe  he'll  bite,"  said  Florence.  "I 
bet  he  likes  me.  He  looks  like  he  was  taking  a  fancy 
to  me,  Kitty  Silver.  What's  his  name?" 

"Gammire." 

"What?" 

"Gammire." 

"What  a  funny  name!  Are  you  sure,  Kitty  Sil 
ver?" 

"Gammire  whut  you*  Aunt  Julia  tole  me"  Mrs. 
Silver  insisted.  "You  kin  go  on  in  the  house  an' 
ast  her;  she'll  tell  you  the  same." 

"Well,  anyway,  I'm  not  afraid  of  him,"  said 
Florence;  and  she  stepped  closer  to  the  poodle,  ex 
tending  her  hand  to  caress  him.  Then  she  shouted 
as  the  dog,  at  her  gesture,  rose  to  his  hind  legs, 
and,  as  far  as  the  leash  permitted,  walked  forward 
to  meet  her.  She  flung  her  arms  about  him  raptur 
ously. 


GENTLE  JULIA  197 

"Oh,  the  lovely  thing!"  she  cried.  "He  walks  on 
his  hind  legs!  Why,  he's  crazy  about  me!" 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Herbert.  "I  bet  he  don't 
like  you  any  more  than  he  does  anybody  else.  Leave 
go  of  him,  and  I  bet  he  shows  he  likes  me  better  than 
he  does  you." 

But  when  Florence  released  him,  Gammire  caressed 
them  both  impartially.  He  leaped  upon  one,  then 
upon  the  other,  and  then  upon  Kitty  Silver  with  a 
cordiality  that  almost  unseated  her. 

"Let  him  off  the  leash,"  Florence  cried.  "He 
won't  run  away,  'cause  the  gates  are  shut.  Let  him 
loose  and  see  what  he'll  do." 

Mrs.  Silver  snapped  the  catch  of  the  leash,  and 
Gammire  departed  in  the  likeness  of  a  ragged  black 
streak.  With  his  large  and  eccentric  ears  flapping 
back  in  the  wind  and  his  afterpart  hunched  in,  he 
ran  round  and  round  the  little  orchard  like  a  dog 
gone  wild.  Altogether  a  comedian,  when  he  heard 
children  shrieking  with  laughter,  he  circled  the  more 
wildly;  then  all  upon  an  unexpected  instant  came  to 
a  dead  halt,  facing  his  audience,  his  nose  on  the 
ground  between  his  two  forepaws,  his  hindquarters 
high  and  unstooping.  And,  seeing  they  laughed  at 
this,  too,  he  gave  them  enough  of  it,  then  came  back 


198  GENTLE  JULIA 

to  Kitty  Silver  and  sat  by  her  feet,  a  spiral  of  pink 
tongue  hanging  from  a  wide-open  mouth  roofed  with 
black. 

Florence  resumed  the  peeling  of  her  orange. 

"Who  do  you  think  gave  Gammire  to  Aunt  Julia?" 
she  asked. 

"I  ain't  stedyin'  about  it." 

"Yes,  but  who  do  you  guess?" 

"I  ain't " 

"Well,  but  if  you  had  to  be  burned  to  death  or 
guess  somebody,  who  would  you  guess?" 

"I  haf  to  git  burn'  up,"  said  Kitty  Silver.  "Ev'y 
las'  caller  whut  comes  here  is  give  her  some  doggone 
animal  awready.  Mista  Sammerses,  he  give  her 
them  two  Berjum  cats,  an'  ole  Mister  Ridgways 
whut  los'  his  wife,  he  give  you'  Aunt  Julia  them  two 
canaries  that  tuck  an'  hopped  out  the  cage  an'  then 
out  the  window,  las'  week,  one  day,  when  you'  gram- 
paw  was  alone  in  the  room  with  'em;  an'  Mista 
George  Plummers,  he  give  her  that  Airydale  dog 
you'  grampaw  tuck  an'  give  to  the  milkman;  an' 
Mista  Ushers,  he  give  her  them  two  pups  whut  you' 
grampaw  tuck  an'  skeer  off  the  place  soon  as  he  laid 
eyes  on  'em,  an'  thishere  Mista  Clairidge,  he  give  her 
that  ole  live  allagatuh  from  Florida  whut  I  foun' 


GENTLE  JULIA  199 

lookin'  at  me  over  the  aidge  o'  my  kitchen  sink — 
ugly  ole  thing! — an'  you'  grampaw  tuck  an'  give  it  to 
the  greenhouse  man.  Ain't  none  nem  ge'lmun  goin' 
try  an'  give  her  no  mo'  animals,  I  bet!  So  how  any 
body  goin'  guess  who  sen'  her  thishere  Gammire? 
Nobody  lef  whut  ain't  awready  sen'  her  one  an'  had 
the  gift  spile." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  said  Florence. 

"Who?" 

"Noble  Dill." 

"That  there  li'l  young  Mista  Dills?"  Kitty  Silver 
cried.  "Listen  me!  Thishere  dog  'spensive  dog." 

"I  don't  care;  I  bet  Noble  Dill  gave  him  to  her." 

Mrs.  Silver  hooted.  "  Go  way !  That  there  young 
li'l  Mista  Dills,  he  ain'  nev'  did  show  no  class,  no  way 
nor  no  time.  He  be  hunderd  year  ole  b'fo'  you  see 
him  in  autamobile  whut  b'long  to  him.  Look  at  a 
way  some  nem  fine  big  rich  men  like  Mista  Clairidge 
an'  Mista  Ridgways  take  an'  th'ow  they  money 
aroun'!  New  necktie  ev'y  time  you  see  'em;  new 
straw  hat  right  spang  the  firs'  warm  day.  Ring  do* 
bell.  I  say,  I  say:  'Walk  right  in,  Mista  Ridgways.' 
Slip  me  dollah  bill  dess  like  that!  Mista  Sammerses 
an'  Mista  Plummers,  an'  some  nem  others,  they 
all  show  class.  Look  Mista  Sammerses'  spec  tickles 


200  GENTLE  JULIA 

made  turtle  back;  fancy  turtle,  too.  I  ast  Miss 
Julia;  she  tell  me  they  fancy  turtle.  Gol'  rim 
spectickles  ain't  in  it;  no  ma'am!  Mista  Sammerses' 
spectickles — jes'  them  rims  on  his  spectickles  alone — 
I  bet  they  cos'  mo'n  all  whut  thishere  young  li'l  Mista 
Dills  got  on  him  from  his  toes  up  an'  his  skin  out.  I 
bet  Mista  Plummers  th'ow  mo'  money  aroun'  dess 
fer  gittin'  his  pants  press'  than  whut  Mista  Dills 
afford  to  spen'  to  buy  his'n  in  the  firs'  place !  He  lose 
his  struggle,  'cause  you'  Aunt  Julia,  she  out  fer  the 
big  class.  Thishere  Gammire,  he  dog  cos'  money; 
he  show  class  same  you'  Aunt  Julia.  Ain't  neither  one 
of  'em  got  to  waste  they  time  on  nobody  whut  can't 
show  no  mo'  class  than  thishere  li'l  young  dish- 
cumbobbery  Mista  Dills ! " 

"I  don't  care,"  Florence  said  stubbornly.  "He 
could  of  saved  up  and  saved  up,  and  if  he  saved  up 
long  enough  he  could  of  got  enough  money  to  buy  a 
dog  like  Gammire,  because  you  can  get  money 
enough  for  anything  if  you're  willing  to  save  up  long 
enough.  Anyway,  I  bet  he's  the  one  gave  him  to 
her." 

Herbert  joined  Kitty  Silver  in  laughter.  "Florence 
is  always  talkin'  about  Noble  Dill,"  he  said.  "She's 
sort  of  crazy,  anyway,  though." 


GENTLE  JULIA  201 

"It  runs  in  the  family,"  Florence  retorted,  au 
tomatically.  "I  caught  it  from  my  cousins.  Any 
how,  I  don't  think  there's  a  single  one  of  any  that 
wants  to  marry  Aunt  Julia  that's  got  the  slightest 
co'parison  to  Noble  Dill.  I  admire  him  because  he's 
so  uncouth." 

"He  so  who?"   Kitty  Silver  inquired. 

"Uncouth." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Mrs.  Silver. 

"It's  in  the  ditchanary,"  Florence  explained. 
"It  means  rare,  elegant,  exquisite,  obs,  unknown,  and 
a  whole  lot  else." 

"It  does  not,"  Herbert  interposed.  "It  means 
kind  of  countrified." 

"You  go  look  in  the  ditchanary,"  his  cousin  said 
severely.  "Then,  maybe,  you'll  know  what  you're 
talkin'  about  just  for  once.  Anyhow,  I  do  like 
Noble  Dill,  and  I  bet  so  does  Aunt  Julia." 

Kitty  Silver  shook  her  head.  "He  lose  his  strug 
gle,  honey!  Miss  Julia,  she  out  fer  the  big  class.  She 
ain't  stedyin'  about  him  'cept  maybe  dess  to  let  him 
run  her  erran's.  She  treat  'em  all  mighty  nice,  'cause 
the  mo*  come  shovin'  an'  pushin'  each  other  aroun', 
class  or  no  class,  why,  the  mo'  harder  that  big  class 
got  to  work  to  git  her — an'  the  mo'  she  got  after  her 


202  GENTLE  JULIA 

the  mo'  keeps  a-comin'.  But  thishere  young  li'l  Mista 
Dills,  I  kine  o'  got  strong  notion  he  liable  not  come 
no  mo'  'tall!"  Her  tone  had  become  one  of  remi 
niscent  amusement,  which  culminated  in  a  burst  of 
laughter.  "Wheel"  she  concluded.  "After  las' 
night,  I  reckon  thishere  Mista  Dills  better  keep 
away  from  the  place — yes'm!" 

Florence  looked  thoughtful,  and  for  the  time  said 
nothing.  It  was  Herbert  who  asked :  "  Why'd  Noble 
Dill  better  stay  away  from  here?" 

"You'  grampaw,"  Mrs.  Silver  said,  shaking  her 
head.  "  You'  grampaw ! " 

"What  about  grandpa?"  said  Herbert.  "What'd 
he  do  last  night?" 

"'Do'?  Oh,  me!"  Then  Mrs.  Silver  uttered 
sounds  like  the  lowing  of  kine,  whereby  she  meant  to 
indicate  her  inability  to  describe  Mr.  Atwater's 
performance.  "Well,  ma'am,"  she  said,  in  the  low 
and  husky  voice  of  simulated  exhaustion,  "all  I  got  to 
say:  you'  grampaw  beat  hisse'f!  He  beat  hisse'f!" 

"How  d'you  mean?     How  could  he " 

"He  beat  hisse'f!  He  dess  out-talk  hisse'f!  No, 
ma'am;  I  done  hear  him  many  an'  many  an'  many's 
the  time,  but  las'  night  he  beat  hisse'f." 

"What  about?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  203 

"Nothin'  in  the  wide  worl'  but  dess  thishere  young 
li'l  Noble  Dills  whut  we  talkin'  about  this  livin' 
minute." 

"What  started  him?" 

"Whut  start  him?"  Mrs.  Silver  echoed  with 
sudden  loudness.  "My  goo'niss!  He  b'en  started  ev* 
since  the  very  firs'  time  he  ev'  lay  eyes  on  him  pran- 
cin'  up  the  front  walk  to  call  on  Miss  Julia.  You' 
grampaw  don'  like  none  nem  callers,  but  he  ever- 
las'n'ly  did  up  an'  take  a  true  spite  on  thishere  li'l 
Dills!" 

"I  mean,"  said  Herbert,  "what  started  him  last 
night?" 

"Them  cigareets,"  said  Kitty  Silver.  "Them 
cigareets  whut  thishere  Noble  Dills  smoke  whiles  he 
settin'  out  on  the  front  po'che  callin'  on  you'  Aunt 
Julia.  You'  grampaw  mighty  funny  man  about 
smellin'!  You  know's  well's  I  do  he  don't  even 
like  the  smell  o'  violet.  Well,  ma'am,  if  he  can't 
stan'  violet,  how  in  the  name  o'  misery  he  goin'  stan' 
the  smell  nem  cigareets  thishere  Dills  smoke?  I 
can't  hardly  stan'  'em  myse'f.  When  he  light  one 
on  the  front  po'che,  she  sif '  all  through  the  house,  an' 
come  slidin'  right  the  whole  way  out  to  my  kitchen, 
an'  bim!  she  take  me  in  the  nose!  You*  grampaw 


204  GENTLE  JULIA 

awready  tole  Miss  Julia  time  an*  time  again  if  that 
li'l  Dills  light  dess  one  mo'  on  his  front  po'che  he 
goin'  to  walk  out  there  an'  do  some  harm !  Co'se  she 
nev'  tuck  an'  pay  no  'tention,  'cause  Miss  Julia,  she 
nev'  pay  no  'tention  to  nobody;  an'  she  like  caller 
have  nice  time — she  ain'  goin'  tell  'em  you'  gram- 
paw  make  such  a  fuss.  'Yes,  Meed,  kine  frien'/ 
she  say,  she  say,  when  they  ast  her:  'Miss  Julia, 
ma'am,'  they  say,  'I  like  please  strike  a  match  fer  to 
light  my  cigareet  if  you  please,  ma'am.'  She  say: 
'Light  as  many  as  you  please,  kine  frien','  she  say, 
she  say.  She  say:  'Smell  o'  cigareet  dess  deligh'ful 
li'l  smell,'  she  say.  'Go  'head  an'  smoke  all  you  kin 
stan','  she  say,  "cause  I  want  you  injoy  you'se'f 
when  you  pay  call  on  me,'  she  say.  Well,  so  thishere 
young  li'l  Dills  settin'  there  puffin'  an'  blowin'  his 
ches'  out  and  in,  an'  feelin'  all  nice  'cause  it  about 
the  firs'  time  this  livin'  summer  he  catch  you'  Aunt 
Julia  alone  to  hisse'f  fer  while — an'  all  time  the 
house  dess  fillin'  up,  an'  draf '  blowin'  straight  at  you' 
grampaw  whur  he  settin'  in  his  liberry.  Ma'am, 
he  sen'  me  out  an'  tell  her  come  in,  he  got  message 
mighty  important  fer  to  speak  to  her.  So  she  tell 
thishere  Dills  wait  a  minute,  an'  walk  in  the  liberry. 
Oh,  ladies!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  205 

"What'd  he  say?"  Herbert  asked  eagerly. 

"He  di'n'  say  nothin',"  Mrs.  Silver  replied  elo 
quently.  "He  hollered." 

"What  did  he  holler?" 

"He  want  know  di'n'  he  never  tell  her  thishere 
Dills  can't  smoke  no  mo'  cigareets  on  his  property, 
an'  di'n'  he  tell  her  he  was'n'  goin'  allow  him  on  the 
place  if  he  did?  He  say  she  got  to  go  back  on  the 
po'che  an'  run  thishere  li'l  Dills  off  home.  He  say  he 
give  her  fair  choice;  she  kin  run  him  off,  or  else  he 
go  on  out  and  chase  him  away  hisse'f .  He  claim  li'l 
Dills  ain'  got  no  biznuss  roun'  callin'  nowhere  't  all, 
'cause  he  on'y  make  about  eighteen  dollars  a  week 
an'  ain't  wuth  it.  He  say " 

She  was  confirmed  in  this  report  by  an  indignant 
interruption  from  Florence.  "That's  just  what  he 
did  say,  the  old  thing!  I  heard  him,  myself,  and 
if  you  care  to  ask  me,  I'll  be  glad  to  inform  you 
that  I  think  grandpa's  conduck  was  simply  insult- 
ing!" 

"'Deed  it  were!"  said  Mrs.  Silver.  "An'  dess 
whut  he  claim  hisse'f  he  mean  it  fer!  But  you  tell 
me,  please,  how  you  hear  whut  you'  grandpaw  say? 
He  mighty  noisy,  but  you  nev'  could  a-hear  him 
plumb  to  whur  you  live." 


206  GENTLE  JULIA 

"I  wasn't  home,"  said  Florence.  "I  was  over 
here." 

"Then  you  mus'  'a'  made  you'se'f  mighty  skimp- 
ish,  'cause  I  ain't  seen  you!" 

"Nobody  saw  me.  I  wasn't  in  the  house,"  said 
Florence,  "I  was  out  in  front." 

"Whurbouts  'out  in  front'?" 

"Well,  I  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  up  against  the 
latticework  of  the  front  porch." 

"Whutfur?" 

"Well,  it  was  dark,"  said  Florence.  "I  just  kind  of 
wanted  to  see  what  might  be  going  on." 

"An'  you  hear  all  whut  you'  grampaw  take  on 
about  an'  ev'ything?" 

"I  should  say  so!  You  could  of  heard  him  lots 
farther  than  where  I  was." 

"Lan'  o'  misery!"  Kitty  Silver  cried.  "If  you 
done  hear  him  whur  you  was,  thishere  li'l  Dills  mus' 
a-hear  him  mighty  plain?  " 

"He  did.  How  could  he  help  it?  He  heard 
every  word,  and  pretty  soon  he  came  down  off  the 
porch  and  stood  a  minute;  then  he  went  on  out  the 
gate,  and  I  don't  know  whether  he  went  home  or  not, 
because  it  was  too  dark  to  see.  But  he  didn't  come 
back." 


GENTLE  JULIA  207 

"Yo'  right  he  didn'!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Silver.  "I 
reckon  he  got  fo'thought  'nough  fer  that,  anyhow! 
I  bet  he  ain't  nev'  goin  come  back  neither.  You' 
grampaw  say  he  goin'  be  fix  fer  him,  if  he  do." 

"Yes,  that  was  while  he  was  standing  there,"  said 
Florence  ruefully.  "He  heard  all  that,  too." 

"Miss  Julia,  she  s'picion'  he  done  hear  somep'm 
'nother,  I  guess,"  Kitty  Silver  went  on.  "She  shet 
the  liberry  do'  right  almos'  on  you'  grampaw's  nose, 
whiles  he  still  a-rampin',  an'  she  slip  out  on  the 
po'che,  an'  take  look  'roun';  then  go  on  up  to  her 
own  room.  I  'uz  up  there,  while  after  that,  turn' 
down  her  bed;  an'  she  injoyin'  herse'f  readin'  book. 
She  feel  kine  o'  put  out,  I  reckon,  but  she  ain't 
stedyin'  about  no  young  li'l  Dills.  She  want  'em  all 
to  have  nice  time  an'  like  her,  but  she  goin'  lose  this 
one,  an'  she  got  plenty  to  spare.  She  show  too  much 
class  fer  to  fret  about  no  Dills." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Florence.  "I  think  she  ought 
to  whether  she  does  or  not,  because  I  bet  he  was 
feeling  just  awful.  And  I  think  grandpa  behaved 
like  an  ole  hoodlum." 

"That'll  do,"  Herbert  admonished  her  sternly. 
"You  show  some  respect  for  your  relations,  if  you 
please." 


208  GENTLE  JULIA 

But  his  loyalty  to  the  Atwater  family  had  a  bad 
effect  on  Florence.  "Oh,  will  I?"  she  returned 
promptly.  "Well,  then,  if  you  care  to  inquire  my 
opinion,  I  just  politely  think  grandpa  ought  to  be 
hanged." 

"See  here " 

But  Florence  and  Kitty  Silver  interrupted  him 
simultaneously. 

"Look  at  that!"  Florence  cried. 

"My  name!"  exclaimed  Kitty  Silver. 

It  was  the  strange  taste  of  Gammire  that  so  ex 
cited  them.  Florence  had  peeled  her  orange  and 
divided  it  rather  fairly  into  three  parts,  but  the 
vehemence  she  exerted  in  speaking  of  her  grand 
father  had  caused  her  to  drop  one  of  these  upon  the 
ground.  Gammire  promptly  ate  it,  "sat  up"  and 
adjusted  his  paws  in  prayer  for  more. 

"Now  you  listen  me!"  said  Kitty  Silver.  "I  ain't 
see  no  dog  eat  orange  in  all  my  days,  an'  I  ain't  see 
nobody  else  whut  see  dog  eat  orange!  No,  ma'am, 
an'  I  ain't  nev'  hear  o'  nobody  else  whut  ev'  see  no 
body  whut  see  dog  eat  orange!" 

Herbert  decided  to  be  less  impressed.  "Oh,  I've 
heard  of  dogs  that'd  eat  apples,"  he  said.  "Yes, 
and  watermelon  and  nuts  and  things."  As  he  spoke 


GENTLE  JULIA  209 

he  played  with  the  tennis  ball  upon  his  racket,  and 
concluded  by  striking  the  ball  high  into  the  air. 
Its  course  was  not  true;  and  it  descended  far  over 
toward  the  orchard,  where  Herbert  ran  to  catch  it — 
but  he  was  not  quick  enough.  At  the  moment  the 
ball  left  the  racket  Gammire  abandoned  his  prayers: 
his  eyes,  like  a  careful  fielder's,  calculating  and 
estimating,  followed  the  swerve  of  the  ball  in  the 
breeze,  and  when  it  fell  he  was  on  the  correct  spot. 
He  caught  it. 

Herbert  shouted.  "He  caught  it  on  the  fly!  It 

must  have  been  an  accident.  Here "  And  he 

struck  the  ball  into  the  air  again.  It  went  high — 
twice  as  high  as  the  house — and  again  Gammire 
"judged"  it;  continuously  shifting  his  position,  his 
careful  eyes  never  leaving  the  little  white  globe,  until 
just  before  the  last  instant  of  its  descent  he  was  mo 
tionless  beneath  it.  He  caught  it  again,  and  Herbert 
whooped. 

Gammire  brought  the  ball  to  him  and  invited 
him  to  proceed  with  the  game.  That  there  might 
be  no  mistaking  his  desire,  Gammire  "sat  up" 
and  prayed;  nor  did  he  find  Herbert  anything 
loth.  Out  of  nine  chances  Gammire  "muffed"  the 
ball  only  twice,  both  times  excusably,  and  Flor- 


210  GENTLE  JULIA 

ence  once  more  flung  her  arms  about  the  willing  per 
former. 

"Who  do  you  s'pose  trained  this  wonderful,  dar 
ling  doggie?"  she  cried. 

Mrs.  Silver  shook  her  marvelling  head.  "He 
mus'  'a'  come  thataway,"  she  said.  "I  bet  nobody 
't  all  ain'  train  him;  he  do  whut  he  want  to  his- 
se'f.  That  Gammire  don'  ast  nobody  to  train 
him." 

"Oh,  goodness!"  Florence  said,  with  sudden 
despondency.  "It's  awful!" 

"Whut  is?" 

"To  think  of  as  lovely  a  dog  as  this  having  to  face 
grandpa!" 

"'Face'  him!"  Kitty  Silver  echoed  forebodingly. 
"I  reckon  you'  grampaw  do  mo'n  dess  'face'  him." 

"That's  what  I  mean,"  Florence  explained.  "I 
expect  he's  just  brute  enough  to  drive  him  off." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Mrs.  Silver.  "He  git  madder  ev'y 
time  somebody  sen'  her  new  pet.  You'  grampaw 
mighty  nervous  man,  an'  everlas'n'ly  do  hate 
animals." 

"He  hasn't  seen  Gammire,  has  he?" 

"Don't  look  like  it,  do  it?"  said  Kitty  Silver. 
"Dog  here  yit." 


GENTLE  JULIA 

"Well,  then  I "  Florence  paused,  glancing 

at  Herbert,  for  she  had  just  been  visited  by  a  pleas 
ant  idea  and  had  no  wish  to  share  it  with  him.  "Is 
Aunt  Julia  in  the  house?" 

"She  were,  li'l  while  ago." 

"I  want  to  see  her  about  somep'n  I  ought  to  see 
her  about,"  said  Florence.  "I'll  be  out  in  a  minute." 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

SHE  ran  into  the  house,  and  found  Julia  seated 
at  a  slim-legged  desk,  writing  a  note. 
"Aunt  Julia,  it's  about  Gammire." 

"Gamin." 

"What?" 

"His  name  is  Gamin." 

"Kitty  Silver  says  his  name's  Gammire." 

"Yes,"  said  Julia.  "She  would.  His  name  is 
Gamin,  though.  He's  a  little  Parisian  rascal,  and 
his  name  is  Gamin." 

"Well,  Aunt  Julia,  I'd  rather  call  him  Gammire. 
How  much  did  he  cost?  " 

"I  don't  know;  he  was  brought  to  me  only  this 
morning,  and  I  haven't  asked  yet." 

"But  I  thought  somebody  gave  him  to  you." 

"Yes;  somebody  did." 

"Well,  I  mean,"  said  Florence,  "how  much  did 
the  person  that  gave  him  to  you  pay  for  him?" 

Julia  sighed.     "I  just  explained,  I  haven't  had  a 

chance  to  ask." 

^  212 


GENTLE  JULIA  213 

Florence  looked  hurt.  "I  don't  mean  you  would 
ask  'em  right  out.  I  just  meant:  Wouldn't  you  be 
liable  to  kind  of  hint  around  an'  give  'em  a  chance 
to  tell  you  how  much  it  was?  You  know  perfeckly 
well  it's  the  way  most  the  fam'ly  do  when  they  give 
each  other  somep'n  pretty  expensive,  Christmas  or 
birthdays,  and  I  thought  proba'ly  you'd " 

"No.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,  Florence,  if  no 
body  ever  got  to  know  how  much  Gamin  cost." 

"Well "  Florence  said,  and  decided  to  ap 
proach  her  purpose  on  a  new  tack.  "Who  was  it 
trained  him?" 

"I  understand  that  the  person  who  gave  him  to  me 
has  played  with  him  at  times  during  the  few  days 
he's  been  keeping  him,  but  hasn't  'trained'  him 
particularly.  French  Poodles  almost  learn  their 
own  tricks  if  you  give  them  a  chance.  It's  natural 
to  them;  they  love  to  be  little  clowns  if  you  let  them." 

"But  who  was  this  person  that  gave  him  to  you?" 

Julia  laughed.  "It's  a  secret,  Florence — like 
Gamin's  price." 

At  this  Florence  looked  piqued.  "Well,  I  guess  I 
got  some  manners!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  know  as  well 
as  you  do,  Aunt  Julia,  there's  no  etiquette  in  coming 
right  square  out  and  asking  how  much  it  was  when 


214  GENTLE  JULIA 

somebody  goes  and  makes  you  a  present.  I'm  cer 
tainly  enough  of  a  lady  to  keep  my  mouth  shut  when 
it's  more  polite  to !  But  I  don't  see  what  harm  there 
is  in  telling  who  it  is  that  gives  anybody  a  present." 

"No  harm  at  all,"  Julia  murmured  as  she  sealed 
the  note  she  had  written.  Then  she  turned  smilingly 
to  face  her  niece.  "Only  I'm  not  going  to." 

"Well,  then,  Aunt  Julia" — and  now  Florence 
came  to  her  point — "what  I  wanted  to  know  is 
just  simply  the  plain  and  simple  question:  Will  you 
give  this  dog  Gammire  to  me?" 

Julia  leaned  forward,  laughing,  and  suddenly 
clapped  her  hands  together,  close  to  Florence's  face. 
"No,  I  won't!"  she  cried.  "There!" 

The  niece  frowned,  lines  of  anxiety  appearing  upon 
her  forehead.  "Well,  why  won't  you?" 

"I  won't  do  it!" 

"But,  Aunt  Julia,  I  think  you  ought  to!" 

"Why  ought  I  to?" 

"Because "  said  Florence.  "Well,  it's  neces 
sary." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  what's  bound 
to  happen  to  him!" 

"What  is?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  215 

"  Grandpa'll  chase  him  off,"  said  Florence.  "  He'll 
take  after  him  the  minute  he  lays  eyes  on  him,  and 
scare  him  to  death — and  then  he'll  get  lost,  and  he 
won't  be  anybody's  dog!  I  should  think  you'd  just 
as  lief  he'd  be  my  dog  as  have  him  chased  all  over 
town  till  a  street  car  hits  him  or  somep'n." 

But  Julia  shook  her  head.     "  That  hasn't  happened 

yet." 

"It  did  happen  with  every  other  one  you  ever  had," 
Florence  urged  plaintively.  "He  chased  'em  every 
last  one  off  the  place,  and  they  never  came  back. 
You  know  perfectly  well,  Aunt  Julia,  grandpa's 
just  bound  to  hate  this  dog,  and  you  know  just  ex 
actly  how  he'll  act  about  him." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Julia.     "Not  just  exactly." 

"Well,  anyway,  you  know  he'll  behave  awful." 

"It's  probable,"  the  aunt  admitted. 

"He  always  does,"  Florence  continued.  "He 
behaves  awful  about  everything  I  ever  heard  about. 
He " 

"I'll  go  pretty  far  with  you,  Florence,"  Julia  in 
terposed,  "but  we'd  better  leave  him  a  loophole. 
You  know  he's  a  constant  attendant  at  church  and 
contributes  liberally  to  many  good  causes." 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean!    I  mean  he  always 


216  GENTLE  JULIA 

acts  horrable  about  anything  pleasant.  Of  course 
I  know  he's  a  good  man,  and  everything;  I  just  mean 
the  way  he  behaves  is  perfeckly  disgusting.  So 
what's  the  use  your  not  givin*  me  this  dog?  You 
won't  have  him  yourself  as  soon  as  grandpa  comes 
home  to  lunch  in  an  hour  or  so." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will!" 

"Grandpa  hasn't  already  seen  him,  has  he?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  makes  you  say " 

"He  isn't  coming  home  to  lunch.  He  won't  be 
home  till  five  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

"Well,  then,  about  six  you  won't  have  any  dog, 
and  poor  little  Gammire'll  get  run  over  by  an  auto 
mobile  some  time  this  very  evening!"  Florence's 
voice  became  anguished  in  the  stress  of  her  appeal. 
"Aunt  Julia,  wont  you  give  me  this  dog?" 

Julia  shook  her  head 

"Won't  you,  please?'9 

"No,  dear." 

"Aunt  Julia,  if  it  was  Noble  Dill  gave  you  this 

QOg 

"Florence!"  her  aunt  exclaimed.  "What  in  the 
world  makes  you  imagine  such  absurd  things? 
Poor  Mr.  Dill!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  217 

"Well,  if  it  was,  I  think  you  ought  to  give  Gammire 
to  me  because  I  like  Noble  Dill,  and  I " 

But  here  her  aunt  laughed  again  and  looked  at  her 
with  some  curiosity.  "You  still  do?"  she  asked. 
"What  for?" 

"Well,"  said  Florence,  swallowing,  "he  may  be 
rather  smallish  for  a  man,  but  he's  very  uncouth  and 
distingrished-looking,  and  I  think  he  doesn't  get  to 
enjoy  himself  much.  Grandpa  talks  about  him  so 
torrably  and — and "  Here,  such  was  the  un 
expected  depth  of  her  feeling  that  she  choked,  where 
upon  her  aunt,  overcome  with  laughter,  but  neverthe 
less  somewhat  touched,  sprang  up  and  threw  two 
pretty  arms  about  her  charmingly. 

"You/wrmi/  Florence!"  she  cried. 

"Then  will  you  give  me  Gammire?"  Florence 
asked  instantly 

"No.  We'll  bring  him  in  the  house  now,  and  you 
can  stay  for  lunch." 

Florence  was  imperfectly  consoled,  but  she  had  a 
thought  that  brightened  her  a  little. 

"Well,  there'll  be  an  awful  time  when  grandpa 
comes  home  this  afternoon — but  it  certainly  will 
be  inter 'sting!" 

She  proved  a  true  prophet,  at  least  to  the  extent 


218  GENTLE  JULIA 

that  when  Mr.  At  water  opened  his  front  gate  that 
afternoon  he  was  already  in  the  presence  of  a  deeply 
interested  audience  whose  observation  was  unknown 
to  him.  Through  the  interstices  of  the  lace  curtains 
at  an  open  window,  the  gaze  of  Julia  and  Florence 
was  concentrated  upon  him  in  a  manner  that  might 
have  disquieted  even  so  opinionated  and  peculiar 
a  man  as  Mr.  At  water,  had  he  been  aware  of  it; 
and  Herbert  likewise  watched  him  fixedly  from  an 
unseen  outpost.  Herbert  had  shown  some  reck 
lessness,  declaring  loudly  that  he  intended  to  lounge 
in  full  view;  but  when  the  well-known  form  of  the 
ancestor  was  actually  identified,  coming  up  the 
street  out  of  the  distance,  the  descendant  changed 
his  mind.  The  good  green  earth  ceased  to  seem  se 
cure;  and  Herbert  climbed  a  tree.  He  surrounded 
himself  with  the  deepest  foliage;  and  beneath  him 
some  outlying  foothills  of  Kitty  Silver  were  visible, 
where  she  endeavoured  to  lurk  in  the  concealment 
of  a  lilac  bush. 

Gammire  was  the  only  person  in  view.  He  sat 
just  in  the  middle  of  the  top  step  of  the  veranda,  and 
his  air  was  that  of  an  endowed  and  settled  institution. 
What  passing  traffic  there  was  interested  him  but 
vaguely,  not  affecting  the  world  to  which  he  belonged 


GENTLE  JULIA 

— that  world  being  this  house  and  yard,  of  which 
he  felt  himself  now,  beyond  all  question,  the  offi 
cial  dog. 

It  had  been  a  rather  hard-working  afternoon,  for 
he  had  done  everything  suggested  to  him  as  well  as  a 
great  many  other  things  that  he  thought  of  himself. 
He  had  also  made  it  clear  that  he  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  everybody,  but  recognized  Julia  to  be  the  head  of 
the  house  and  of  his  own  universe;  and  though  he  was 
at  the  disposal  of  all  her  family  and  friends,  he  was 
at  her  disposal  first.  Whithersoever  she  went,  there 
would  he  go  also,  unless  she  otherwise  commanded. 
Just  now  she  had  withdrawn,  closing  the  door,  but 
he  understood  that  she  intended  no  permanent  ex 
clusion.  Who  was  this  newcomer  at  the  gate? 

The  newcomer  came  to  a  halt,  staring  intoler 
antly.  Then  he  advanced,  slamming  the  gate  behind 
him.  "  Get  out  o'  here ! "  he  said.  "  You  get  off  the 
place!" 

Gammire  regarded  him  seriously,  not  moving, 
while  Mr.  Atwater  cast  an  eye  about  the  lawn, 
seeming  to  search  for  something,  and  his  gaze,  thus 
roving,  was  arrested  by  a  slight  movement  of  great 
areas  behind  a  lilac  bush.  It  appeared  that  the 
dome  of  some  public  building  had  covered  itself  with 


220  GENTLE  JULIA 

antique  textiles  and  was  endeavouring  to  hide  there 
— a  failure. 

"Kitty  Silver!"  he  said.     "What  are  you  doing?" 

"Suh?" 

Debouching  sidewise  she  came  into  fuller  view, 
but  retired  a  few  steps.  "Whut  I  doin'  whur,  Mista 
Atwater?" 

"How'd  that  dog  get  on  my  front  steps?" 

Her  face  became  noncommittal  entirely.  "This- 
here  dog?  He  just  settin'  there,  suh." 

"How'd  he  get  in  the  yard?" 

"Mus'  somebody  up  an'  brung  him  in." 

"Who  did  it?" 

"You  mean:    Who  up  an'  brung  him  in,  suh?" 

"I  mean:    Who  does  he  belong  to?' 

"Mus'  be  Miss  Julia's.     I  reckon  he  is,  so  fur." 

"What!  She  knows  I  don't  allow  dogs  on  the 
place." 

"Yessuh." 

Mr.  Atwater's  expression  became  more  outraged 
and  determined.  "You  mean  to  say  that  some 
body's  trying  to  give  her  another  dog  after  all  I've 
been  through  with " 

"It  look  that  way,  suh.' 

"Who  did  it?" 


GENTLE  JULIA 

"Miss  Julia  ain't  sayin';  an'  me,  I  don'  know  who 
done  it  no  mo'n  the  lilies  of  the  valley  whut  toil  not 
neither  do  they  spins." 

In  response,  Mr.  Atwater  was  guilty  of  exclama 
tions  lacking  in  courtesy;  and  turning  again  toward 
Gammire,  he  waved  his  arm.  "Didn't  you  hear  me 
tell  you  to  get  out  of  here?" 

Gammire  observed  the  gesture,  and  at  once  "sat 
up,"  placing  his  forepaws  over  his  nose  in  prayer, 
but  Mr.  Atwater  was  the  more  incensed. 

"Get  out  of  here,  you  woolly  black  scoundrel!" 

Mrs.  Silver  uttered  a  cry  of  injury  before  she 
perceived  that  she  had  mistaken  her  employer's 
intention.  Gammire  also  appeared  to  mistake  it, 
for  he  came  down  upon  the  lawn,  rose  to  his  full 
height,  on  his  "hind  legs,"  and  in  that  humanlike 
posture  "walked"  in  a  wide  circle.  He  did  this 
with  an  affectation  of  conscientiousness  thoroughly 
hypocritical;  for  he  really  meant  to  be  humorous. 

"My  heavens!"  Mr.  Atwater  cried,  lamenting. 
"Somebody's  given  her  one  of  those  things  at  last! 
I  don't  like  any  kind  of  dog,  but  if  there's  one  dam 
thing  on  earth  I  won't  stand,  it's  a  trick  poodle!" 

And  while  the  tactless  Gammire  went  on,  "walk 
ing"  a  circle  round  him,  Mr.  Atwater's  eye  furiously 


GENTLE  JULIA 

searched  the  borders  of  the  path,  the  lawn,  and 
otherwheres,  for  anything  that  might  serve  as  mis 
sile.  He  had  never  kicked  a  dog,  or  struck  one  with 
his  hand,  in  his  life;  he  had  a  theory  that  it  was 
always  better  to  throw  something.  "Idiot  poodle!" 
he  said. 

But  Gammire's  tricks  were  not  idiocy  in  the  eyes 
of  Mr.  Atwater's  daughter,  as  she  watched  them. 
They  had  brought  to  her  mind  the  tricks  of  the 
Jongleur  of  Notre  Dame,  who  had  nothing  to  offer 
heaven  itself,  to  mollify  heaven's  rulers,  except  his 
entertainment  of  juggling  and  nonsense;  so  that  he 
sang  his  thin  jocosities  and  played  his  poor  tricks 
before  the  sacred  figure  of  the  Madonna;  but  when 
the  pious  would  have  struck  him  down  for  it,  she 
miraculously  came  to  life  just  long  enough  to 
smile  on  him  and  show  that  he  was  right  to  offer 
his  absurd  best.  And  thus,  as  Julia  watched  the 
little  Jongleur  upon  the  lawn,  she  saw  this  was 
what  he  was  doing:  offering  all  he  knew,  hoping  that 
someone  might  laugh  at  him,  and  like  him.  And, 
not  curiously,  after  all,  if  everything  were  known, 
she  found  herself  thinking  of  another  foolish  creature, 
who  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  offer  anybody, 
except  what  came  out  of  the  wistfulness  of  a  foolish, 


GENTLE  JULIA 

loving  heart.  Then,  though  her  lips  smiled  faintly 
as  she  thought  of  Noble  Dill,  all  at  once  a  brightness 
trembled  along  the  eyelids  of  the  Prettiest  Girl  in 
Town,  and  glimmered  over,  a  moment  later,  to  shine 
upon  her  cheek. 

"You  get  out!"  Mr.  Atwater  shouted,  "D'ye 
hear  me,  you  poodle?" 

He  found  the  missile,  a  stone  of  fair  diameter.  He 
hurled  it  violently. 

"There,  darn  you!" 

The  stone  missed,  and  Gammire  fled  desperately 
after  it. 

"You  get  over  that  fence!"  Mr.  Atwater  cried. 
"You  wait  till  I  find  another  rock  and  I'll " 

He  began  to  search  for  another  stone,  but,  before 
he  could  find  one,  Gammire  returned  with  the  first. 
He  deposited  it  upon  the  ground  at  Mr.  Atwater's 
feet. 

"There's  your  rock,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Atwater  looked  down  at  him  fiercely,  and 
through  the  black  chrysanthemum  two  garnet  sparks 
glinted  waggishly. 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  tell  you  what  I'd  do  if  you 
didn't  get  out  o'  here,  you  darn  poodle?" 

Gammire  "sat  up,"  placed  his  forepaws  together 


GENTLE  JULIA 

over  his  nose  and  prayed.  "There's  your  rock," 
he  said.  And  he  added,  as  clearly  as  if  he  used  a 
spoken  language,  "Let's  get  on  with  the  game!" 

Mr.  Atwater  turned  to  Kitty  Silver.  "Does  he 
— does  he  know  how  to  speak,  or  shake  hands,  or 
anything  like  that?"  he  asked. 

The  next  morning,  as  the  peculiar  old  man  sat 
at  breakfast,  he  said  to  the  lady  across  the  table: 
"Look  here.  Who  did  give  Gamin  to  us?" 

Julia  bit  her  lip;  she  even  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"Well,  who  was  it?" 

Her  demureness  still  increased.  "It  was — Noble 
DiU." 

Mr.  Atwater  was  silent;  he  looked  down  and  caught 
a  clownish  garnet  gleam  out  of  a  blackness  neighbour 
ing  his  knee.  "Well,  see  here,"  he  said.  "Why 
can't  you — why  can't  you " 

"Why  can't  I  what?" 

"Why  can't  you  sit  out  in  the  yard  the  next  time 
he  calls  here,  instead  of  on  the  porch  where  it  blows 
all  through  the  house?  It's  just  as  pleasant  to  sit 
under  the  trees,  isn't  it?" 

"Pleasanter,"  said  Julia. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

BY  THE  end  of  October,  with  the  dispersal  of 
foliage  that  has  served  all  summer  long  as  a 
screen  for  whatever  small  privacy  may  exist 
between  American  neighbours,  we  begin  to  perceive 
the  rise  of  our  autumn  high  tides  of  gossip.  At  this 
season  of  the  year,  in  our  towns  of  moderate  size 
and  ambition,  where  apartment  houses  have  not 
yet  condensed  and  at  the  same  time  sequestered 
the  population,  one  may  look  over  back  yard  be 
yond  back  yard,  both  up  and  down  the  street;  espe 
cially  if  one  takes  the  trouble  to  sit  for  an  hour  or  so 
daily,  upon  the  top  of  a  high  fence  at  about  the  middle 
of  a  block. 

Of  course  an  adult  who  followed  such  a  course 
would  be  thought  peculiar,  no  doubt  he  would  be 
subject  to  inimical  comment;  but  boys  are  considered 
so  inexplicable  that  they  have  gathered  for  them 
selves  many  privileges  denied  their  parents  and  elders, 
and  a  boy  can  do  such  a  thing  as  this  to  his  full  con 
tent,  without  anybody's  thinking  about  it  at  all.  So 

225 


226  GENTLE  JULIA 

it  was  that  Herbert  Illingsworth  Atwater,  Jr.,  sat 
for  a  considerable  time  upon  such  a  fence,  after  school 
hours,  every  afternoon  of  the  last  week  in  October; 
and  only  one  person  particularly  observed  him  or  was 
stimulated  to  any  mental  activity  by  his  procedure. 
Even  at  that,  this  person  was  affected  only  because 
she  was  Herbert's  relative,  of  an  age  sympathetic  to 
his  and  of  a  sex  antipathetic. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Herbert,  thus  seriously 
disporting  himself  on  his  father's  back  fence,  at 
tracted  only  an  audience  of  one  (and  she  hostile 
at  a  rather  distant  window)  his  behaviour  might  well 
have  been  thought  piquant  by  anybody.  After 
climbing  to  the  top  of  the  fence  he  would  produce 
from  interior  pockets  a  small  memorandum-book 
and  a  pencil.  His  expression  was  gravely  alert,  his 
manner  more  than  businesslike;  yet  nobody  could 
have  failed  to  comprehend  that  he  was  enjoying 
himself,  especially  when  his  attitude  became  tenser, 
as  it  frequently  did.  Then  he  would  rise,  balancing 
himself  at  adroit  ease,  his  feet  one  before  the  other 
on  the  inner  rail,  below  the  top  of  the  boards,  and 
with  eyes  dramatically  shielded  beneath  a  scoutish 
palm,  he  would  gaze  sternly  in  the  direction  of  some 
object  or  movement  that  had  attracted  his  attention ; 


GENTLE  JULIA 

and  then,  having  satisfied  himself  of  something  or 
other,  he  would  sit  and  decisively  enter  a  note  in 
his  memorandum-book. 

He  was  not  always  alone;  sometimes  he  was  joined 
by  a  friend,  male,  and,  though  shorter  than  Herbert, 
about  as  old;  and  this  companion  was  inspired,  it 
seemed,  by  motives  precisely  similar  to  those  from 
which  sprang  Herbert's  own  actions.  Like  Herbert 
he  would  sit  upon  the  top  of  the  high  fence;  like 
Herbert  he  would  rise  at  intervals,  for  the  better 
study  of  something  this  side  the  horizon;  then,  also 
like  Herbert,  he  would  sit  again  and  write  firmly 
in  a  little  note-book.  And  seldom  in  the  history 
of  the  world  have  any  such  sessions  been  invested  by 
the  participants  with  so  intentional  an  appearance 
of  importance. 

That  was  what  most  irritated  their  lone  observer 
at  the  somewhat  distant  upstairs  back  window. 
The  important  importance  of  Herbert  and  his  friend 
was  so  extreme  as  to  be  all  too  plainly  visible  across 
four  intervening  broad  back  yards;  in  fact,  there  was 
sometimes  reason  to  suspect  that  the  two  performers 
were  aware  of  their  audience  and  even  of  her  goaded 
condition;  and  that  they  deliberately  increased  the 
outrageousness  of  their  importance  on  her  account. 


228  GENTLE  JULIA 

And  upon  the  Saturday  of  that  week,  when  the  note 
book  writers  were  upon  the  fence  the  greater  part  of 
the  afternoon,  Florence's  fascinated  indignation  be 
came  vocal. 

"Vile  Things!  "she  said. 

Her  mother,  sewing  beside  another  window  of  the 
room,  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"What  are,  Florence?" 

"Cousin  Herbert  and  that  nasty  little  Henry 
Rooter." 

"Are  you  watching  them  again?  "  her  mother  asked. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  said  Florence;  and  added  tartly, 
"Not  because  I  care  to,  but  merely  to  amuse  myself 
at  their  expense." 

Mrs.  Atwater  murmured,  "Couldn't  you  find 
some  other  way  to  amuse  yourself,  Florence?" 

"I  don't  call  this  amusement,"  the  inconsistent 
girl  responded,  not  without  chagrin.  "Think  I'd 
spend  all  my  days  starin'  at  Herbert  Illingsworth 
Atwater,  Junior,  and  that  nasty  little  Henry  Rooter, 
and  call  it  amusement  ?" 

"Then  why  do  you  do  it?" 

"Why  do  I  do  what,  mamma?"  Florence  in 
quired,  as  in  despair  of  Mrs.  At  water's  ever  learning 
to  put  things  clearly. 


GENTLE  JULIA  229 

"Why  do  you  'spend  all  your  days'  watching 
them?  You  don't  seem  able  to  keep  away  from  the 
window,  and  it  appears  to  make  you  irritable.  I 
should  think  if  they  wouldn't  let  you  play  with  them 
you'd  be  too  proud " 

"Oh,  good  heavens,  mamma!" 

"Don't  use  such  expressions,  Florence,  please." 

"Well,"  said  Florence,  "I  got  to  use  some  expres 
sion  when  you  accuse  me  of  wantin'  to  'play'  with 
those  two  vile  things !  My  goodness  mercy,  mamma, 
I  don't  want  to  'play'  with  'em!  I'm  more  than 
four  years  old,  I  guess;  though  you  don't  ever  seem 
willing  to  give  me  credit  for  it.  I  don't  haf  to  'play' 
all  the  time,  mamma:  and  anyway,  Herbert  and 
that  nasty  little  Henry  Rooter  aren't  playing,  either." 

"Aren't  they?"  Mrs.  Atwater  inquired.  "I 
thought  the  other  day  you  said  you  wanted  them  to 
let  you  play  with  them  at  being  a  newspaper  re 
porter  or  editor  or  something  like  that,  and  they  were 
rude  and  told  you  to  go  away.  Wasn't  that  it?" 

Florence  sighed.   "No, mamma,  it  cert'nly  wasn't." 

"They  weren't  rude  to  you?" 

"Yes,  they  cert'nly  were!" 

"Well,  then " 

"Mamma,     can't     you     understand?"     Florence 


230  GENTLE  JULIA 

turned  from  the  window  to  beseech  Mrs.  Atwater  s 
concentration  upon  the  matter.  "It  isn't  'playing'! 
I  didn't  want  to  'play'  being  a  reporter;  they  ain't 
flaying'-  -" 

"Aren't  playing,  Florence." 

"Yes'm.  They're  not.  Herbert's  got  a  real 
printing-press;  Uncle  Joseph  gave  it  to  him.  It's  a 
real  one,  mamma,  can't  you  understand?" 

"I'll  try,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater.  "You  mustn't 
get  so  excited  about  it,  Florence." 

"I'm  not!"  Florence  returned  vehemently.  "I 
guess  it'd  take  more  than  those  two  vile  things  and 
their  old  printing-press  to  get  me  excited!  /  don't 
care  what  they  do;  it's  far  less  than  nothing  to  me! 
All  /  wish  is  they'd  fall  off  the  fence  and  break  their 
vile  ole  necks!" 

With  this  manifestation  of  impersonal  calmness, 
she  turned  again  to  the  window;  but  her  mother 
protested.  "Do  quit  watching  those  foolish  boys; 
you  mustn't  let  them  upset  you  so  by  their  playing." 

Florence  moaned.  "They  don't  'upset'  me,  mam 
ma!  They  have  no  effects  on  me  by  the  slightest 
degree!  And  I  told  you,  mamma,  they're  not 
'playing'." 

"Then  what  are  they  doing?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  231 

"Well,  they're  having  a  newspaper.  They  got 
the  printing-press  and  an  office  in  Herbert's  stable, 
and  everything.  They  got  somebody  to  give  'em 
some  ole  banisters  and  a  railing  from  a  house  that 
was  torn  down  somewheres,  and  then  they  got  it 
stuck  up  in  the  stable  loft,  so  it  runs  across  with  a 
kind  of  a  gate  in  the  middle  of  these  banisters,  and 
on  one  side  is  the  printing-press  and  a  desk  from 
that  nasty  little  Henry  Rooter's  mother's  attic;  and 
a  table  and  some  chairs,  and  a  map  on  the  wall; 
and  that's  their  newspaper  office.  They  go  out  and 
look  for  what's  the  news,  and  write  it  down  in  lead 
pencil;  and  then  they  go  up  to  their  office  and  write 
it  in  ink;  and  then  they  print  it  for  their  newspaper." 
"But  what  do  they  do  on  the  fence?" 
"  That's  where  they  go  to  watch  what  the  news  is," 
Florence  explained  morosely.  "They  think  they're 
so  grand,  sittin'  up  there,  pokin'  around!  They  go 
other  places,  too;  and  they  ask  people.  That's 
all  they  said  I  could  be!"  Here  the  lady's  bitterness 
became  strongly  intensified.  "They  said  maybe 
I  could  be  one  o'  the  ones  they  asked  if  I  knew  any 
thing,  sometimes,  if  they  happened  to  think  of  it! 
I  just  respectf'ly  told  'em  I'd  decline  to  wipe  my 
oldest  shoes  on  'em  to  save  their  lives!" 


GENTLE  JULIA 

Mrs.  Atwater  sighed.  "You  mustn't  use  such  ex 
pressions,  Florence." 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  the  daughter  promptly 
objected.  "They're  a  lot  more  refined  than  the 
expressions  they  used  on  me!" 

"Then  I'm  very  glad  you  didn't  play  with  them.'5 

But  at  this,  Florence  once  more  gave  way  to  filial 
despair.  "Mamma,  you  just  can't  see  through  any 
thing!  I've  said  anyhow  fifty  times  they  ain't — 
aren't — playing!  They're  getting  up  a  real  news 
paper,  and  have  people  buy  it  and  everything.  They 
been  all  over  this  part  of  town  and  got  every  aunt 
and  uncle  they  have  besides  their  own  fathers  and 
mothers,  and  some  people  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  Kitty  Silver  and  two  or  three  other  coloured 
people  besides.  They're  going  to  charge  twenty- 
five  cents  a  year,  collect-in-advance  because  they 
want  the  money  first;  and  even  papa  gave  'em  a 
quarter  last  night;  he  told  me  so." 

"How  often  do  they  intend  to  publish  their  paper, 
Florence?"  Mrs.  Atwater  inquired  absently,  having 
resumed  her  sewing. 

"Every  week;  and  they're  goin'  to  have  the  first 
one  a  week  from  to-day." 

"What  do  they  call  it?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  233 

"The  North  End  Daily  Oriole.  It's  the  silliest 
name  I  ever  heard  for  a  newspaper;  and  I  told  'em 
so.  I  told  'em  what  I  thought  of  it,  I  guess!" 

"Was  that  the  reason?"  Mrs.  Atwater  asked. 

"Was  it  what  reason,  mamma?" 

"Was  it  the  reason  they  wouldn't  let  you  be  a 
reporter  with  them?" 

"Foot!"  Florence  exclaimed  airily.  "I  didn't 
want  anything  to  do  with  their  ole  paper.  But  any 
way  I  didn't  make  fun  o'  their  callin'  it  'The  North 
End  Daily  Oriole'  till  after  they  said  I  couldn't  be 
in  it.  Then  I  did,  you  bet!" 

"Florence,  don't  say " 

"Mamma,  I  got  to  say  somep'n!  Well,  I  told 
'em  I  wouldn't  be  in  their  ole  paper  if  they  begged  me 
on  their  bented  knees;  and  I  said  if  they  begged  me 
a  thousand  years  I  wouldn't  be  in  any  paper  with 
such  a  crazy  name  and  I  wouldn't  tell  'em  any  news 
if  I  knew  the  President  of  the  United  States  had  the 
scarlet  fever!  I  just  politely  informed  'em  they 
could  say  what  they  liked,  if  they  was  dying  7  de 
clined  so  much  as  wipe  the  oldest  shoes  I  got  on  'em!" 

"But  why  wouldn't  they  let  you  be  on  the  paper?" 
her  mother  insisted. 

Upon    this    Florence    became    analytical.     "Just 


234  GENTLE  JULIA 

so's  they  could  act  so  important. "  And  she  added, 
as  a  consequence,  "They  ought  to  be  arrested!" 

Mrs.  Atwater  murmured  absently,  but  forbore  to 
press  her  inquiry;  and  Florence  was  silent,  in  a 
brooding  mood.  The  journalists  upon  the  fence 
had  disappeared  from  view,  during  her  conversation 
with  her  mother;  and  presently  she  sighed,  and 
quietly  left  the  room.  She  went  to  her  own  apart 
ment,  where,  at  a  small  and  rather  battered  little 
white  desk,  after  a  period  of  earnest  reverie,  she 
took  up  a  pen,  wet  the  point  in  purple  ink,  and  with 
out  great  effort  or  any  critical  delayings,  produced 
a  poem. 

It  was  in  a  sense  an  original  poem,  though  like  the 
greater  number  of  all  literary  projections,  it  was  so 
strongly  inspirational  that  the  source  of  its  inspira 
tion  might  easily  become  manifest  to  a  cold-blooded 
reader.  Nevertheless,  to  the  poetess  herself,  as  she 
explained  later  in  good  faith,  the  words  just  seemed 
to  come  to  her; — doubtless  with  either  genius  or 
some  form  of  miracle  implied;  for  sources  of  inspira 
tion  are  seldom  recognized  by  inspired  writers  them 
selves.  She  had  not  long  ago  been  party  to  a  musical 
Sunday  afternoon  at  her  Great -Uncle  Joseph's  house, 
where  Mr.  Clairdyce  sang  some  of  his  songs  again 


GENTLE  JULIA  235 

and  again,  and  her  poem  may  have  begun  to  coagu 
late  within  her  then. 

THE  ORGANEST 
BY  FLORENCE    ATWATER 

The  organest  was  seated  at  his  organ  in  a  church, 

In  some  beautiful  woods  of  maple  and  birch, 

He  was  very  weary  while  he  played  upon  the  keys, 

But  he  was  a  great  organest  and  always  played  with  ease, 

When  the  soul  is  weary, 

And  the  wind  is  dreary, 

I  would  like  to  be  an  organest  seated  all  day  at  the  organ, 
Whether  my  name  might  be  Fairchild  or  Morgan, 

I  would  play  music  like  a  vast  amen, 

The  way  it  sounds  in  a  church  of  men. 

Florence  read  her  poem  seven  or  eight  times, 
the  deepening  pleasure  of  her  expression  being  evi 
dence  that  repetition  failed  to  denature  this  work, 
but  on  the  contrary,  enhanced  an  appreciative  sur 
prise  at  its  singular  merit.  Finally  she  folded  the 
sheet  of  paper  with  a  delicate  carefulness  unusual  to 
her,  and  placed  it  in  her  skirt  pocket;  then  she  went 
downstairs  and  out  into  the  back  yard.  Her  next  ac 
tion  was  straightforward  and  anything  but  prudish; 
she  climbed  the  high  wooden  fences,  one  after  the 
other,  until  she  came  to  a  pause  at  the  top  of  that 
whereon  the  two  journalists  had  lately  made  them 
selves  so  odiously  impressive. 


236  GENTLE  JULIA 

Before  her,  if  she  had  but  taken  note  of  them,  were 
a  lesson  in  history  and  the  markings  of  a  profound 
transition  in  human  evolution.  Beside  the  old  frame 
stable  was  a  little  brick  garage,  obviously  put  to  the 
daily  use  intended  by  its  designer.  Quite  as  obvi 
ously  the  stable  was  obsolete;  anybody  would  have 
known  from  its  outside  that  there  was  no  horse 
within  it.  There,  visible,  was  the  end  of  the  pastoral 
age. 

All  this  was  lost  upon  Florence.  She  sat  upon  the 
fence,  her  gaze  unfavourably  though  wistfully  fixed 
upon  a  sign  of  no  special  aesthetic  merit  above  the 
stable  door. 

THE  NORTH  END  DAILY  ORIOLE 
ATWATER  &  ROOTER  OWNERS  & 
PROPREITORS  SUBSCRIBE  NOW  25CENTS 

The  inconsistency  of  the  word  "daily"  did  not 
trouble  Florence;  moreover,  she  had  found  no  fault 
with  "Oriole"  until  the  Owners  &  Propreitors  had 
explained  to  her  in  the  plainest  terms  known  to  their 
vocabularies  that  she  was  excluded  from  the  enter 
prise.  Then,  indeed,  she  had  been  reciprocally  ex 
plicit  in  regard  not  only  to  them  and  certain  personal 
characteristics  of  theirs,  which  she  pointed  out  as 


GENTLE  JULIA  237 

fundamental,  but  in  regard  to  any  newspaper  which 
should  deliberately  call  itself  an  "Oriole."  The 
partners  remained  superior  in  manner,  though  unable 
to  conceal  a  natural  resentment;  they  had  adopted 
"Oriole"  not  out  of  a  sentiment  for  the  city  of 
Baltimore,  nor,  indeed,  on  account  of  any  ornitho- 
logic  interest  of  theirs,  but  as  a  relic  left  over  from  an 
abandoned  club  or  secret  society,  which  they  had 
previously  contemplated  forming,  its  members  to  be 
called  "The  Orioles"  for  no  reason  whatever.  The 
two  friends  had  talked  of  this  plan  at  many  meetings 
throughout  the  summer,  and  when  Mr.  Joseph  At- 
water  made  his  great-nephew  the  unexpected  present 
of  a  printing-press,  and  a  newspaper  consequently 
took  the  place  of  the  club,  Herbert  and  Henry  still 
entertained  an  affection  for  their  former  scheme  and 
decided  to  perpetuate  the  name.  They  were  the 
more  sensitive  to  attack  upon  it  by  an  ignorant 
outsider  and  girl  like  Florence,  and  her  chance  of 
ingratiating  herself  with  them,  if  that  could  be  now 
her  intention,  was  not  a  promising  one. 

She  descended  from  the  fence  with  pronounced 
inelegance,  and,  approaching  the  old  double  doors  of 
the  "carriage-house,"  which  were  open,  paused  to 
listen.  Sounds  from  above  assured  her  that  the 


238  GENTLE  JULIA 

editors  were  editing — or  at  least  that  they  could 
be  found  at  their  place  of  business.  Therefore,  she 
ascended  the  cobwebby  stairway,  emerged  from  it 
into  the  former  hay  loft,  and  thus  made  her  appear 
ance  in  the  printing-room  of  The  North  End  Daily 
Oriole. 

Herbert,  frowning  with  the  burden  of  composi 
tion,  sat  at  a  table  beyond  the  official  railing,  and  his 
partner  was  engaged  at  the  press,  earnestly  setting 
type.  This  latter  person  (whom  Florence  so 
seldom  named  otherwise  than  as  "that  nasty 
little  Henry  Rooter")  was  of  a  pure,  smooth, 
fair-haired  appearance,  and  strangely  clean  for 
his  age  and  occupation.  His  profile  was  of  a  sym 
metry  he  had  not  yet  himself  begun  to  appreciate; 
his  dress  was  scrupulous  and  modish;  and  though  he 
was  short,  nothing  outward  about  him  confirmed  the 
more  sinister  of  Florence's  two  adjectives.  Never 
theless,  her  poor  opinion  of  him  was  plain  in  her 
expression  as  she  made  her  present  intrusion  upon 
his  working  hours  He  seemed  to  reciprocate. 

"Listen!  Didn't  I  and  Herbert  tell  you  to  keep 
out  o'  here?"  he  said.  "Look  at  her,  Herbert! 
She's  back  again!" 

"You  get  out  o'  here,  Florence,"  said  Herbert, 


GENTLE  JULIA  239 

abandoning  his  task  with  a  look  of  pain.  "How 
often  we  got  to  tell  you  we  don't  want  you  around 
here  when  we're  in  our  office  like  this?" 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  Henry  Rooter  thought  fit 
to  add.  "  Can't  you  quit  runnin'  up  and  down  our 
office  stairs  once  in  a  while,  long  enough  for  us  to  get 
our  newspaper  work  done?  Can't  you  give  us  a  little 
peace?  " 

The  pinkiness  of  Florence's  altering  complexion 
was  justified;  she  had  not  been  within  a  thousand 
miles  of  their  old  office  for  four  days.  With  some 
heat  she  stated  this  to  be  the  fact,  adding,  "And  I 
only  came  then  because  I  knew  somebody  ought  to 
see  that  this  stable  isn't  ruined.  It's  my  own  uncle 
and  aunt's  stable,  I  guess,  isn't  it?  Answer  me  that, 
if  you'll  kindly  please  to  do  so!" 

"It's  my  father  and  mother's  stable,"  Herbert 
asserted.  "Haven't  I  got  a  right  to  say  who's 
allowed  in  my  own  father  and  mother's  stable?" 

"You  have  not,"  the  prompt  Florence  replied. 
"It's  my  own  uncle  and  aunt's  stable,  and  I  got  as 
much  right  here  as  anybody." 

"You  have  not!"  Henry  Rooter  protested  hotly. 
"This  isn't  either  your  ole  aunt  and  uncle's  stable." 

"ItMll'lf? 


240  GENTLE  JULIA 

"No,  it  is  not!  This  isn't  anybody's  stable.  It's 
my  and  Herbert's  Newspaper  Building,  and  I  guess 
you  haven't  got  the  face  to  stand  there  and  claim 
you  got  a  right  to  go  in  a  Newspaper  Building  and 
say  you  got  a  right  there  when  everybody  tells  you 
to  stay  outside  of  it,  I  guess ! " 

"Oh,  haven't  I?" 

"No,  you  'haven't — I'!"  Mr.  Rooter  maintained 
bitterly.  "You  just  walk  down  town  and  go  in  any 
Newspaper  Buildings  down  there  and  tell  'em  you 
got  a  right  to  stay  there  all  day  long  when  they  tell 
you  to  get  out  o'  there!  Just  try  it!  That's  all  I 
ask!" 

Florence  uttered  a  cry  of  derision.  "And  pray, 
whoever  told  you  I  was  bound  to  do  everything  you 
ask  me  to,  Mister  Henry  Rooter?"  And  she  con 
cluded  by  reverting  to  that  hostile  impulse,  so  an 
cient,  which,  in  despair  of  touching  an  antagonist 
effectively,  reflects  upon  his  ancestors.  "If  you  got 
anything  you  want  to  ask,  you  go  ask  your  grand 
mother!" 

"Here!"  Herbert  sprang  to  his  feet.  "You  try 
and  behave  like  a  lady!" 

"Who'll  make  me?"  she  inquired. 

"  You  got  to  behave  like  a  lady  as  long  as  you're  in 


GENTLE  JULIA  241 

our  Newspaper  Building,  anyway,"  Herbert  said 
ominously.  "If  you  expect  to  come  up  here  after 
you  been  told  five  dozen  times  to  keep  out " 

"For  Heaven's  sakes!"  his  partner  interposed. 
"When  we  goin'  to  get  our  newspaper  work  done? 
She's  your  cousin;  I  should  think  you  could  get  her 
out!" 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to,  ain't  I?"  Herbert  protested 
plaintively.  "I  expect  to  get  her  out,  don't  I?  " 

"Oh,  do  you?"  Miss  Atwater  inquired,  with  se 
vere  mockery.  "Pray,  how  would  you  expect  to 
accomplish  it,  pray?" 

Herbert  looked  desperate,  but  was  unable  to  form 
a  reply  consistent  with  a  few  new  rules  of  etiquette 
and  gallantry  that  he  had  begun  to  observe  during 
the  past  year  or  so.  "Now,  see  here,  Florence,"  he 
said.  "You're  old  enough  to  know  when  people  tell 
you  to  keep  out  of  a  place,  why,  it  means  they  want 
you  to  stay  away  from  there." 

Florence  remained  cold  to  this  reasoning.  "Oh, 
Foot!"  she  said. 

"Now,  look  here!"  her  cousin  remonstrated,  and 
went  on  with  his  argument.  "  We  got  our  newspaper 
work  to  do,  and  you  ought  to  have  sense  enough  to 
know  newspaper  work  like  this  newspaper  work  we 


GENTLE  JULIA 

got  on  our  hands  here  isn't — well,  it  ain't  any  child's 
play." 

His  partner  appeared  to  approve  of  the  expression, 
for  he  nodded  severely  and  then  used  it  himself. 
"No,  you  bet  it  isn't  any  child's  play!"  he  said. 

"No,  sir,"  Herbert  continued.  "This  newspaper 
work  we  got  on  our  hands  here  isn't  any  child's 
play." 

"No,  sir,"  Henry  Rooter  again  agreed.  "News 
paper  work  like  this  isn't  any  child's  play  at  all!" 

"It  isn't  any  child's  play,  Florence,"  said  Herbert. 
"It  ain't  any  child's  play  at  all,  Florence.  If  it  was 
just  child's  play  or  something  like  that,  why,  it 
wouldn't  matter  so  much  your  always  pokin'  up  here, 
and " 

"Well,"  his  partner  interrupted  judicially; — "we 
wouldn't  want  her  around,  even  if  it  was  child's 
play." 

"No,  we  wouldn't;  that's  so,"  Herbert  agreed. 
"We  wouldn't  want  you  around,  anyhow,  Florence." 
Here  his  tone  became  more  plaintive.  "So,  for 
mercy's  sakes  can't  you  go  on  home  and  give  us  a 
little  rest?  What  you  want,  anyhow?" 

"Well,  I  guess  it's  about  time  you  was  askin'  me 
that,"  she  said,  not  unreasonably.  "If  you'd  asked 


GENTLE  JULIA  243 

me  that  in  the  first  place,  instead  of  actin'  like  you'd 
never  been  taught  anything,  and  was  only  fit  to 
associate  with  hoodlums,  perhaps  my  time  is  of  some 
value,  myself!" 

Here  the  lack  of  rhetorical  cohesion  was  largely 
counteracted  by  the  strong  expressiveness  of  her  tone 
and  manner,  which  made  clear  her  position  as  a  per 
son  of  worth,  dealing  with  the  lowest  of  her  inferiors. 
She  went  on,  not  pausing: 

"I  thought  being  as  I  was  related  to  you,  and  all 
the  family  and  everybody  else  is  goin'  to  haf  to  read 
your  ole  newspaper,  anyway  it'd  be  a  good  thing  if 
what  was  printed  in  it  wasn't  all  a  disgrace  to  the 
family,  because  the  name  of  our  family's  got  mixed  up 
with  this  newspaper; — so  here!" 

Thus  speaking,  she  took  the  poem  from  her  pocket 
and  with  dignity  held  it  forth  to  her  cousin. 

"What's  that?"  Herbert  inquired,  not  moving  a 
hand.  He  was  but  an  amateur,  yet  already  enough 
of  an  editor  to  be  suspicious. 

"It's  a  poem,"  Florence  said.  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  exackly  ought  to  have  it  in  your  ole  news 
paper  or  not,  but  on  account  of  the  family's  sake  I 
guess  I  better.  Here,  take  it." 

Herbert  at  once  withdrew  a  few  steps,  placing  his 


244  GENTLE  JULIA 

hands  behind  him.  "Listen  here,"  he  said; — "y°u 
think  we  got  time  to  read  a  lot  o'  nothin'  in  your  ole 
hand-writin'  that  nobody  can  read  anyhow,  and  then 
go  and  toil  and  moil  to  print  it  on  our  printin'- 
press?  I  guess  we  got  work  enough  printin'  what  we 
write  for  our  newspaper  our  own  selves!  My  good 
ness,  Florence,  I  told  you  this  isn't  any  child's  play!" 

For  the  moment,  Florence  appeared  to  be  some 
what  baffled.  "Well, "she  said.  "Well,  you  better 
put  this  poem  in  your  ole  newspaper  if  you  want 
to  have  anyhow  one  thing  in  it  that  won't  make 
everybody  sick  that  reads  it." 

"I  won't  do  it!"  Herbert  said  decisively. 

"What  you  take  us  for?"  his  partner  added. 

"All  right,  then,"  Florence  responded.  "I'll  go 
and  tell  Uncle  Joseph  and  he'll  take  this  printing- 
press  back." 

"He  will  not  take  it  back.  I  already  did  tell  him 
how  you  kept  pokin'  around,  tryin'  to  run  everything, 
and  how  we  just  worried  our  lives  out  tryin'  to  keep 
you  away.  He  said  he  bet  it  was  a  hard  job;  that's 
what  Uncle  Joseph  said!  So  go  on,  tell  him  anything 
you  want  to.  You  don't  get  your  ole  poem  in  our 
newspaper!" 

"Not  if  she  lived  to  be  two  hunderd  years  old!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  245 

Henry  Rooter  added.  Then  he  had  an  afterthought. 
"Not  unless  she  pays  for  it." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Herbert  asked,  puzzled  by 
this  codicil. 

Now  Henry's  brow  had  become  corrugated  with 
no  little  professional  impressiveness.  "You  know 
what  we  were  talkin'  about  this  morning?"  he  said. 
"How  the  right  way  to  run  our  newspaper,  we  ought 
to  have  some  advertisements  in  it  and  everything? 
Well,  we  want  money,  don't  we?  We  could  put  this 
poem  in  our  newspaper  like  an  advertisement; — that 
is,  if  Florence  has  got  any  money,  we  could." 

Herbert  frowned.  "If  her  ole  poem  isn't  too  long 
I  guess  we  could.  Here,  let's  see  it,  Florence." 
And,  taking  the  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand,  he 
studied  the  dimensions  of  the  poem,  without  paining 
himself  to  read  it.  "Well,  I  guess,  maybe  we  can 
do  it,"  he  said.  "How  much  ought  we  to  charge 
her?" 

This  question  sent  Henry  Rooter  into  a  state 
of  calculation,  while  Florence  observed  him  with 
veiled  anxiety;  but  after  a  time  he  looked  up,  his 
brow  showing  continued  strain.  "Do  you  keep  a 
bank,  Florence — for  nickels  and  dimes  and  maybe 
quarters,  you  know?"  he  inquired. 


246  GENTLE  JULIA 

It  was  her  cousin  who  impulsively  replied  for  her. 
"No,  she  don't,"  he  said. 

"Not  since  I  was  about  seven  years  old!"  And 
Florence  added  sharply,  though  with  dignity:  "Do 
you  still  make  mud  pies  in  your  back  yard,  pray?" 

"Now,  see  here!"  Henry  objected.  "Try  and  be 
a  lady  anyway  for  a  few  minutes,  can't  you?  I  got  to 
figure  out  how  much  we  got  to  charge  you  for  your  ole 
poem,  don't  I?" 

"Well,  then,"  Florence  returned,  "you  better  ask 
me  somep'n  about  that,  hadn't  you?" 

"Well,"  said  Henry  Rooter,  "have  you  got  any 
money  at  home?" 

"No,  I  haven't." 

"Have  you  got  any  money  with  you?" 
"Yes,  I  have." 
"How  much  is  it?" 
"I  won't  tell  you." 

Henry  frowned.  "I  guess  we  ought  to  make 
her  pay  about  two  dollars  and  a  half,"  he  said, 
turning  to  his  partner. 

Herbert  became  deferential;  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  formed  a  business  association  with  a  genius, 
and  for  a  moment  he  was  dazzled;  then  he  remem 
bered  Florence's  financial  capacities,  always  well 


GENTLE  JULIA  247 

known  to  him,  and  he  looked  depressed.  Florence, 
herself,  looked  indignant. 

"Two  dollars  and  a  half!"  she  cried.  "Why,  I, 
could  buy  this  whole  place  for  two  dollars  and  a  half, 
printing-press,  railing,  and  all — yes,  and  you  thrown 
in,  Mister  Henry  Rooter!" 

"See  here,  Florence,"  Henry  said  earnestly. 
"Haven't  you  got  two  dollars  and  a  half?" 

"Of  course  she  hasn't!"  his  partner  assured  him. 
"She  never  had  two  dollars  and  a  half  in  her  life! " 

"Well,  then,"  said  Henry  gloomily,  "what  we 
goin'  to  do  about  it?  How  much  you  think  we  ought 
to  charge  her?" 

Herbert's  expression  became  noncommittal.  "Just 
let  me  think  a  minute,"  he  said,  and  with  his  hand 
to  his  brow  he  stepped  behind  the  unsuspicious  Flor 
ence. 

"I  got  to  think,"  he  murmured;  then  with  the 
straightforwardness  of  his  age,  he  suddenly  seized  his 
damsel  cousin  from  the  rear  and  held  her  in  a  tight 
but  far  from  affectionate  embrace,  pinioning  her 
arms.  She  shrieked,  "Murder!"  and  "Let  me  go!" 
and  "Help!  Hay-yulp!" 

"Look  in  her  pocket,"  Herbert  shouted.  "She 
keeps  her  money  in  her  skirt  pocket  when  she's  got 


248  GENTLE  JULIA 

any.  It's  on  the  left  side  of  her.  Don't  let  her  kick 
you!  Look  out!" 

"I  got  it!"  said  the  dexterous  Henry,  retreating 
and  exhibiting  coins.  "It's  one  dime  and  two 
nickels — twenty  cents.  Has  she  got  any  more 
pockets?" 

"No,  I  haven't!"  Florence  fiercely  informed  him, 
as  Herbert  released  her.  "And  I  guess  you  better 
hand  that  money  back  if  you  don't  want  to  be 
arrested  for  stealing!" 

But  Henry  was  unmoved.  "Twenty  cents,"  he 
said  calculatingly.  "Well,  all  right;  it  isn't  much, 
but  you  can  have  your  poem  in  our  newspaper  for 
twenty  cents,  Florence.  If  you  don't  want  to  pay 
that  much,  why,  take  your  ole  twenty  cents  and  go 
on  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Herbert.  "That's  as  cheap  as  we'll 
do  it,  Florence.  Take  it  or  leave  it." 

"Take  it  or  leave  it,"  Henry  Rooter  agreed. 
"That's  the  way  to  talk  to  her;  take  it  or  leave  it, 
Florence.  If  you  don't  take  it  you  got  to  leave  it." 

Florence  was  indignant,  but  she  decided  to  take  it. 
"All  right,"  she  said  coldly.  "I  wouldn't  pay  an 
other  cent  if  I  died  for  it." 

"Well,  you  haven't  got  another  cent,  so  that's  all 


GENTLE  JULIA  249 

right,"  Mr.  Rooter  remarked;  and  he  honourably 
extended  an  open  palm  toward  his  partner.  "Here, 
Herbert;  you  can  have  the  dime,  or  the  two  nickels, 
whichever  you  rather.  It  makes  no  difference  to 
me;  I'd  as  soon  have  one  as  the  other." 

Herbert  took  the  two  nickels,  and  turned  to 
Florence.  "See  here,  Florence,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  strong  complaint.  "This  business  is  all  done 
and  paid  for  now.  What  you  want  to  hang  around 
here  any  more  for?" 

"Yes,  Florence,"  his  partner  faithfully  seconded 
him,  at  once.  "We  haven't  got  any  more  time  to 
waste  around  here  to-day,  and  so  what  you  want  to 
stand  around  in  the  way  and  everything  for?  You 
ought  to  know  yourself  we  don't  want  you." 

"I'm  not  in  the  way,"  said  Florence  hotly.  "Whose 
way  am  I  in?" 

"Well,  anyhow  if  you  don't  go,"  Herbert  informed 
her,  "we'll  carry  you  downstairs  and  lock  you  out." 

"I'd  just  like  to  see  you!"  she  returned,  her  eyes 
flashing.  "Just  you  dare  to  lay  a  finger  on  me 
again!"  And  she  added,  "Anyway,  if  you  did,  those 
ole  doors  haven't  got  any  lock  on  'em:  I'll  come 
right  back  in  and  walk  right  straight  up  the  stairs 
again ! " 


250  GENTLE  JULIA 

Herbert  advanced  toward  her.  "Now  you  pay 
attention  to  me,"  he  said.  "You've  paid  for  your 
ole  poem,  and  we  got  to  have  some  peace  around 
here.  I'm  goin'  straight  over  to  your  mother  and 
ask  her  to  come  and  get  you." 

Florence  gave  up.  "What  difference  would  that 
make,  Mister  Taddletale?"  she  inquired  mockingly. 
"7  wouldn't  be  here  when  she  came,  would  I?  I'll 
thank  you  to  notice  there's  some  value  to  my 
time,  myself;  and  I'll  just  politely  ask  you  to  excuse 
me,  pray!" 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

WITH  a  proud  air  she  crushingly  departed, ^ 
returning  to  her  own  home  far  from  dis 
satisfied  with  what  she  had  accomplished. 
Moreover,  she  began  to  expand  with  the  realization  of 
a  new  importance;  and  she  was  gratified  with  the 
effect  upon  her   parents,   at   dinner  that   evening, 
when  she  informed  them  that  she  had  written  a 
poem,  which  was  to  be  published  in  the  prospective 
first  number  of  The  North  End  Daily  Oriole. 

"Written  a  poem?"  said  her  father.  "Well,  I 
declare!  Why,  that's  remarkable,  Florence!" 

"I'm  glad  the  boys  were  nice  about  it,"  said  her 
mother.  "I  should  have  feared  they  couldn't  ap 
preciate  it,  after  being  so  cross  to  you  about  letting 
you  have  anything  to  do  with  the  printing-press. 
They  must  have  thought  it  was  a  very  good  poem.'* 

"Where  is  the  poem,  Florence?"  Mr.  Atwater 
asked.  "Let's  read  it  and  see  what  our  little  girl 
can  do  when  she  really  tries." 

Unfortunately  Florence  had  not  a  copy,  and  when 

251 


GENTLE  JULIA 

she  informed  her  father  of  this  fact,  he  professed 
himself  greatly  disappointed  as  well  as  eager  for  the 
first  appearance  of  The  Oriole,  that  he  might 
felicitate  himself  upon  the  evidence  of  his  daughter's 
heretofore  unsuspected  talent.  Florence  was  herself 
anxious  for  the  newspaper's  debut,  and  she  made  her 
anxiety  so  clear  to  Atwater  &  Rooter,  Owners  & 
Propreitors,  every  afternoon  after  school,  during  the 
following  week,  that  by  Thursday  further  argument 
and  repartee  on  their  part  were  felt  to  be  indeed 
futile;  and  in  order  to  have  a  little  peace  around  there, 
they  carried  her  downstairs.  At  least,  they  defined 
their  action  as  "carrying,"  and,  having  deposited 
her  in  the  yard,  they  were  obliged  to  stand  guard  at 
the  doors,  which  they  closed  and  contrived  to  hold 
against  her  until  her  strength  was  worn  out  for  that 
day. 

Florence  consoled  herself.  During  the  week  she 
dropped  in  on  all  the  members  of  "the  family" — her 
grandfather,  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins,  her  great- 
aunts  and  great-uncles — and  in  each  instance,  after 
no  protracted  formal  preliminaries,  lightly  remarked 
that  she  wrote  poetry  now;  her  first  to  appear  in  the 
forthcoming  Oriole.  And  when  Great-Aunt  Carrie 
said,  "Why,  Florence,  you're  wonderful!  I  couldn't 


GENTLE  JULIA  253 

write  a  poem  to  save  my  life.  I  never  could  see  how 
they  do  it,"  Florence  laughed,  made  a  deprecatory 
little  side  motion  with  her  head,  and  responded, 
"Why,  Aunt  Carrie,  that's  nothing!  It  just  kind 
of  comes  to  you." 

This  also  served  as  her  explanation  when  some 
of  her  school  friends  expressed  their  admiration, 
after  being  told  the  news  in  confidence;  though  to  one 
of  the  teachers  she  said,  smiling  ruefully,  as  in 
remembrance  of  midnight  oil,  "It  does  take  work,  of 
course!" 

When  opportunity  offered,  upon  the  street,  she 
joined  people  she  knew  (or  even  rather  distant  ac 
quaintances)  to  walk  with  them  a  little  way  and 
lead  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  poetry,  in 
cluding  her  own  contribution  to  that  art.  Altogether, 
if  Florence  was  not  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a  poetic 
celebrity  it  was  not  her  own  fault  but  entirely  that  of 
The  North  End  Daily  Oriole,  which  was  to  make 
its  appearance  on  Saturday,  but  failed  to  do  so  on 
account  of  too  much  enthusiasm  on  the  part  of  At- 
water  &  Rooter  in  manipulating  the  printing-press. 
It  broke,  had  to  be  repaired;  and  Florence,  her  nerves 
upset  by  the  accident,  demanded  her  money  back. 


254  GENTLE  JULIA 

This  was  impossible,  and  the  postponement  proved 
to  be  but  an  episode ;  moreover,  it  gave  her  time  to  let 
more  people  know  of  the  treat  that  was  coming. 

Among  these  was  Noble  Dill.  Until  the  Friday 
following  her  disappointment  she  had  found  no  op 
portunity  to  acquaint  her  Very  Ideal  with  the  news; 
and  but  for  an  encounter  partly  due  to  chance,  he 
might  not  have  heard  of  it.  A  sentimental  enrich 
ment  of  colour  in  her  cheeks  was  the  result  of  her 
catching  sight  of  him,  as  she  was  on  the  point  of 
opening  and  entering  her  own  front  door,  that  after 
noon,  on  her  return  from  school.  He  was  passing 
the  house,  walking  somewhat  dreamily. 

Florence  stepped  into  the  sheltering  vestibule, 
peeping  round  it  with  earnest  eyes  to  watch  him  as 
he  went  by;  obviously  he  had  taken  no  note  of  her. 
Satisfied  of  this,  she  waited  until  he  was  at  a  little 
distance,  then  ran  lightly  down  to  the  gate,  hurried 
after  him  and  joined  him. 

"Why,  Mr.  Dill!"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  mother's 
most  polished  manner.  "How  supprising  to  see 
you!  I  presume  as  we  both  happen  to  be  walking 
the  same  direction  we  might  just's  well  keep  to 
gether." 

"Surprising  to  see  me?"  Noble  said  vaguely.     "I 


GENTLE  JULIA  255 

haven't  been  away  anywhere  in  particular,  Florence." 
Then,  at  a  thought,  he  brightened.  "I'm  glad  to  see 
you,  Florence,  Do  you  know  if  any  of  your  family 
or  relatives  have  heard  when  your  Aunt  Julia  is 
coming  home?" 

"Aunt  Julia?  She's  out  of  town,"  said  Florence. 
"She's  visiting  different  people  she  used  to  know 
when  she  was  away  at  school." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Mr.  Dill  returned.  "But  she's 
been  gone  six  weeks." 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  it's  that  long,"  Florence  said 
casually;  then  with  more  earnestness:  "Mr.  Dill, 
I  was  goin'  to  ask  you  somep'n — it's  kind  of  a  funny 
question  for  me  to  ask,  but " 

"Yes,  she  has,"  Noble  interrupted,  not  aware  that 
his  remark  was  an  interruption.  "Oh,  yes,  she  has! " 
he  said.  "It  was  six  weeks  day -bef ore-yesterday 
afternoon.  I  saw  your  father  down-town  this 
morning,  and  he  said  he  didn't  know  that  any  of  the 
family  had  heard  just  when  she  was  coming  home. 
I  thought  maybe  some  of  your  relatives  had  a  letter 
from  her  by  this  afternoon's  mail,  perhaps." 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Florence.  "Mr.  Dill,  there  was 
a  question  I  thought  I'd  ask  you.  It's  kind  of  a 
funny  question  for  me " 


256  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Are  you  sure  nobody's  heard  from  your  Aunt 
Julia  to-day?"  Noble  insisted. 

"I  guess  they  haven't.  Mr.  Dill,  I  was  goin'  to 
ask  you " 

"It's  strange,"  he  murmured,  "I  don't  see  how 
people  can  enjoy  visits  that  long.  I  should  think 
they'd  get  anxious  about  what  might  happen  at 
home." 

"Oh,  grandpa's  all  right;  he  says  he  kind  of  likes 
to  have  the  house  nice  and  quiet  to  himself;  and 
anyway  Aunt  Julia  enjoys  visiting,"  Florence  as 
sured  him.  "Aunt  Fanny  saw  a  newspaper  from 
one  the  places  where  Aunt  Julia's  visiting  her  school 
room-mate.  It  had  her  picture  in  it  and  called  her 
'the  famous  Northern  Beauty';  it  was  down  South 
somewhere.  Well,  Mr.  Dill,  I  was  just  say  in'  I  be 
lieve  I'd  ask  you " 

But  a  sectional  rancour  seemed  all  at  once  to  affect 
the  young  man.  "Oh,  yes.  I  heard  about  that," 
he  said.  "Your  Aunt  Fanny  lent  my  mother  the 
newspaper.  Those  people  in  that  part  of  the  coun 
try — well "  He  paused,  remembering  that  it 

was  only  Florence  he  addressed;  and  he  withheld 
from  utterance  his  opinion  that  the  Civil  War  ought 
to  be  fought  all  over  again.  "Your  father  said 


GENTLE  JULIA  257 

your  grandfather  hadn't  heard  from  her  for  several 
days,  and  even  then  she  hadn't  said  when  she  was 
coming  home." 

"No,  I  expect  she  didn't,"  said  Florence.  "Mr. 
Dill,  I  was  goin'  to  ask  you  somep'n — it's  kind  of  a 

queer  kind  of  question  for  me  to  ask,  I  guess " 

She  paused.  However,  he  did  not  interrupt  her, 
seeming  preoccupied  with  gloom;  whereupon  Flor 
ence  permitted  herself  a  deprecatory  laugh,  and  con 
tinued,  "It  might  be  you'd  answer  yes,  or  it  might 
be  you'd  answer  no;  but  anyway  I  was  goin'  to  ask 
you — it's  kind  of  a  funny  question  for  me  to  ask,  I 
expect — but  do  you  like  poetry?" 

"What?" 

"Well,  as  things  have  turned  out  lately  I  guess  it's 
kind  of  a  funny  question,  Mr.  Dill,  but  do  you  like 
poetry?" 

Noble's  expression  took  on  a  coldness;  for  the  word 
brought  to  his  mind  a  thought  of  Newland  Sanders. 
"Do  I  like  poetry?"  said  Noble.  "No,  I  don't." 

Florence  was  momentarily  discouraged;  but  at  her 
age  people  usually  possess  an  invaluable  faculty, 
which  they  lose  later  in  life;  and  it  is  a  pity  that  they 
do  lose  it.  At  thirteen — especially  the  earlier  months 
of  thirteen — they  are  still  able  to  set  aside  and  dis- 


258  GENTLE  JULIA 

miss  from  their  minds  almost  any  facts,  no  matter 
how  audibly  those  facts  have  asked  for  recognition. 
Children  superbly  allow  themselves  to  become  deaf, 
so  to  speak,  to  undesirable  circumstances;  most 
frequently,  of  course,  to  undesirable  circumstances 
in  the  way  of  parental  direction;  so  that  fathers, 
mothers,  nurses,  or  governesses,  not  comprehending 
that  this  mental  deafness  is  for  the  time  being  en 
tirely  genuine,  are  liable  to  hoarseness  both  of  throat 
and  temper.  Thirteen  is  an  age  when  the  fading  of 
this  gift  or  talent,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  child 
hood,  begins  to  impair  its  helpfulness  under  the  mis 
taken  stress  of  discipline;  but  Florence  retained  some 
thing  of  it.  In  a  moment  or  two  Noble  Dill's  dis 
affection  toward  poetry  was  altogether  as  if  it  did 
not  exist. 

She  coughed,  inclined  her  head  a  little  to  one  side, 
in  her  mother's  manner  of  politeness  to  callers,  and, 
repeating  her  deprecatory  laugh,  remarked:  "Well, 
of  course  it's  kind  of  a  funny  question  for  me  to  ask, 
of  course." 

"What  is,  Florence?"  Noble  inquired  absently. 

"Well — what  I  was  saying  was  that  'course  it's 
sort  of  queer  me  askin'  if  you  liked  poetry,  of  course, 
on  account  of  my  writing  poetry  the  way  I  do  now." 


GENTLE  JULIA  259 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  bright  readiness  to 
respond  modestly  to  whatever  exclamation  his  won 
der  should  dictate;  but  Noble's  attention  had  strag 
gled  again. 

"Has  she  written  your  mother  lately?"  he  asked. 

Florence's  expression  denoted  a  mental  condition 
slightly  disturbed.  "No,"  she  said.  "It's  goin 
to  be  printed  in  The  North  End  Daily  Oriole.'9 

"What?" 

"My  poem.  It's  about  a  vast  amen — anyhow, 
that's  proba'ly  the  best  thing  in  it,  I  guess — and 
they're  goin'  to  have  it  out  to-morrow,  or  else  they'll 
have  to  settle  with  me;  that's  one  thing  certain! 
I'll  bring  one  over  to  your  house  and  leave  it  at  the 
door  for  you,  Mr.  Dill." 

Noble  had  but  a  confused  notion  of  what  she  thus 
generously  promised.  However,  he  said,  "Thank 
you,"  and  nodded  vaguely. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  know  as  it's  so  awful  good," 
Florence  admitted  insincerely.  "The  family  all 
seem  to  think  it's  something  pretty  much;  but  I  don't 
know  if  it  is  or  not.  Really,  I  don't!" 

"No,"  said  Noble,  still  confused.  "I  suppose 
not." 

"I'm  half  way  through  another  one  I  think  my- 


260  GENTLE  JULIA 

self'll  be  a  good  deal  better.  I'm  not  goin'  as  fast 
with  it  as  I  did  with  the  other  one,  and  I  expect  it'll 
be  quite  a  ways  ahead  of  this  one."  She  again  em 
ployed  the  deprecatory  little  laugh.  "I  don't  know 
how  I  do  it,  myself.  The  family  all  think  it's  sort 
of  funny  I  don't  know  how  I  do  it,  myself;  but  that's 
the  way  it  is.  They  all  say  if  they  could  do  it 
they're  sure  they'd  know  how  they  did  it;  but  I  guess 
they're  wrong.  I  presume  if  you  can  do  it,  why,  it 
just  comes  to  you.  Don't  you  presume  that's  the 
way  it  is,  Mr.  Dill?" 

"I — guess  so."  They  had  reached  his  gate,  and 
he  stopped.  "You're  sure*  none  of  your  family 
have  heard  anything  to-day?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"From  Aunt  Julia?     I  don't  think  they  have." 

He  sighed,  and  opened  the  gate.  "Well,  good 
evening,  Florence." 

"Good  evening."  Her  eyes  followed  him  wist 
fully  as  he  passed  within  the  enclosure;  then  she 
turned  and  walked  quickly  toward  her  own  home; 
but  at  the  corner  of  the  next  fence  she  called  back 
over  her  shoulder,  "I'll  leave  it  with  your  mother  for 
you,  if  you're  not  home  when  I  bring  it." 

"What?"  he  shouted,  from  his  front  door. 

"I'll  leave  it  with  your  mother." 


GENTLE  JULIA  261 

"Leave  what?" 

"The  poem!" 

"  Oh ! "  said  Noble.     "  Thanks ! " 

But  when  his  mother  handed  him  a  copy  of  the 
first  issue  of  The  North  End  Daily  Oriole,  the 
next  day,  when  he  came  home  to  lunch,  he  read  it 
without  edification;  there  was  nothing  about  Julia 
hi  it. 

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NEWS  OF  THE  CITY 


The  Candidates  for  mayor  at  the  election  are  Mr  P.  N.  Gordon 
and  John  T  Milo.  The  contest  is  very  great  between  these  candi 
dates. 

Holcombs  chickens  get  in  MR.  Joseph  Atwater's  yard  a  god  deal 
lately.  He  says  chickens  are  out  of  place  in  a  city  of  this  size. 

Minnie  the  cook  of  Mr.  F.  L.  Smith's  residisence  goes  downtown 
every  Thrusday  afts  about  three  her  regular  day  for  it. 

A  new  ditch  is  being  dug  accross  the  MR.  Henry  D.  Vance  back- 
yrad.  ;Tis  about  dug  but  nobody  is  working  there  now.  Patty 
Fairchild  received  the  highest  mark  in  declamation  of  the  7A  at 
Sumner  School  last  Friday. 

Balf's  grorcey  wagon  ran  over  a  cat  of  the  Mr.  Rayfort  family. 
Geo.  the  driver  of  the  wagom  stated  he  had  not  but  was  willing  to 
take  it  away  and  burg  it  somewheres  Geo.  stated  regret  and  claimed 


GENTLE  JULIA 

nothing  but  an  accident  which  could  not  be  helped  and  not  his  team 
that  did  the  damage. 

MissColfield  teacher  of  the  7A  atSumner  School  was  reproted  on 
the  sink  list.  We  hope  she  will  soon  be  well. 

There  were  several  deaths  in  the  city  this  week. 

Mr.  Fairchild  father  of  Patty  Fairchild  was  on  the  sick  list  several 
days  and  did  not  go  to  his  office  but  is  out  now. 

Been  Kriso  the  cHauffeur  of  the  Mr.  R.  G.  Atwater  family  washes 
their  car  on  Monday.  In  using  the  hose  he  turned  water  over  the 
fence  accidently  and  hit  Lonnie  the  washWOman  in  back  of  MRS. 
Bruffs  who  called  him  some  low  names.  Ben  told  her  if  he  had  have 
been  a  man  he  wrould  strike  her  but  soon  the  distrubance  was  at  an 
end.  There  is  a  good  deal  more  of  other  news  which  will  be  printed 
in  our  next  NO. 

Advertisements  &  Poems 
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THE  Organstep 

BY  Florence  Atwater 

The  Organstep  was  seated  at  his  organ  in  a 
In  some  beautifil  words  of  vagle  and  brir 
But  he  was  a  gReat  organstep  and  always 
When  the  soil  is  weary 
And  the  mind  is  drearq 
I  would  play  music  like  a  vast  amen 
The  way  it  sounds  in  a  church  of  new 
Subscribe  NOW  25  cents  Adv  &  Poetry 
20  cents  up.     Atwater  &  Rooter  News 
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Such  was  the  first  issue,  complete,  of  The  North 
End    Daily    Oriole.      What  had  happened    to    the 


GENTLE  JULIA  263 

poem  was  due  partly  to  Atwater  &  Rooter's  natural 
lack  of  experience  in  a  new  and  exacting  trade; 
partly  to  their  enviable  unconsciousness  of  any 
necessity  for  proof-reading;  and  somewhat  to  their 
haste  in  getting  through  the  final  and  least  interest 
ing  stage  of  their  undertaking;  for  of  course  so  far  as 
the  printers  were  concerned,  the  poem  was  mere  hack 
work  anti-climax. 

And  as  they  later  declared,  under  fire,  anybody 
that  could  make  out  more  than  three  words  in  five 
of  Florence's  ole  hand- writing  was  welcome  to  do  it. 
Besides,  what  did  it  matter  if  a  little  bit  was  left  out 
at  the  end  of  one  or  two  of  the  lines?  They  couldn't 
be  expected  to  run  the  lines  out  over  their  margin, 
could  they?  And  they  never  knew  anything  crazier 
than  makin'  all  this  fuss,  because:  Well,  what  if 
some  of  it  wasn't  printed  just  exactly  right,  who  in 
the  world  was  goin'  to  notice  it,  and  what  was  the 
difference  of  just  a  few  words  different  in  that  ole 
poem,  anyhow? 

For  by  the  time  these  explanations  (so  to  call 
them)  took  place,  Florence  was  indeed  makin'  a  fuss. 
Her  emotion,  at  first,  had  been  happily  stimulated 
at  sight  of  "BY  Florence  Atwater."  A  singular 
tenderness  had  risen  in  her — a  tremulous  sense  as  of 


264  GENTLE  JULIA 

something  almost  sacred  coming  at  last  into  its  own; 
and  she  hurried  to  distribute,  gratis,  among  relatives 
and  friends,  several  copies  of  the  Oriole,  paying 
for  them, too  (though  not  without  injurious  argument), 
at  the  rate  of  two  cents  a  copy.  But  upon  returning 
to  her  own  home,  she  became  calm  enough  (for  a 
moment  or  so)  to  look  over  the  poem  with  attention 
to  details.  She  returned  hastily  to  the  Newspaper 
Building,  but  would  have  been  wiser  to  remain  away, 
since  all  subscribers  had  received  their  copies  by 
the  time  she  got  there;  and  under  the  circumstances 
little  reparation  was  practicable. 

She  ended  her  oration — or  professed  to  end  it— 
by  declaring  that  she  would  never  have  another 
poem  in  their  ole  vile  newspaper  as  long  as  she 
lived. 

" You're  right  about  that!"  Henry  Rooter  agreed 
heartily.  "We  wouldn't  let  another  one  in  it.  Not 
for  fifty  dollars!  Just  look  at  all  the  trouble  we 
took,  moiling  and  toiling,  to  get  your  ole  poem  printed 
as  nice  as  we  could,  so  it  wouldn't  ruin  our  newspaper, 
and  then  you  come  over  here  and  go  on  like  this, 
and  all  this  and  that,  why,  I  wouldn't  go  through  it 
again  for  a  hunderd  dollars!  We're  makin'  good 
money  anyhow,  with  our  newspaper,  Florence  At- 


GENTLE  JULIA  265 

water.  You  needn't  think  we  depend  on  you  for 
our  living ! " 

"That's  so,"  his  partner  declared.  "We  knew 
you  wouldn't  be  satisfied,  anyway,  Florence.  Didn't 
we,  Henry?" 

"I  should  say  we  did!" 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Herbert.  "Right  when  we  were 
havin'  the  worst  time  tryin'  to  print  it  and  make  out 
some  o'  the  words,  I  said  right  then  we  were  just 
throwing  away  our  time.  I  said,  *  What's  the  use? 
That  ole  girl's  bound  to  raise  Gain  anyhow,  so  what's 
the  use  wastin'  a  whole  lot  of  our  good  time  and  brains 
like  this,  just  to  suit  her  ?  Whatever  we  do,  she's 
certain  to  come  over  and  insult  us.'  Isn't  that  what 
I  said,  Henry?" 

"Yes,  it  is;  and  I  said  then  you  were  right,  and  you 
are  right!" 

"Cert'nly  I  am,"  said  Herbert.  "Didn't  I  tell 
you  she'd  be  just  the  way  some  the  family  say  she 
is?  A  good  many  of  'em  say  she'd  find  fault  with 
the  undertaker  at  her  own  funeral.  That's  just 
exactly  what  I  said!" 

"Oh,  you  did?"  Florence  burlesqued  a  polite 
interest.  "How  virry  considerate  of  you!  Then, 
perhaps  you'll  try  to  be  a  gentleman  enough  for  one 


266  GENTLE  JULIA 

simple  moment  to  allow  me  to  tell  you  my  last 
remarks  on  this  subject.  I've  said  enough " 

"Oh,  have  you?"  Herbert  interrupted  with  vio 
lent  sarcasm.  "Oh,  no!  Say  not  so!  Florence, 
say  not  so!" 

At  this,  Henry  Rooter  loudly  shouted  with  ap 
plausive  hilarity;  whereupon  Herbert,  rather  sur 
prised  at  his  own  effectiveness,  naturally  repeated 
his  waggery. 

"Say  not  so,  Florence!  Say  not  so!  Say  not 
so!" 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing!"  his  lady  cousin  cried, 
thoroughly  infuriated.  "I  wish  to  make  just  one 
last  simple  remark  that  I  would  care  to  soil  myself 
with  in  your  respects,  Mister  Herbert  Illingsworth 
Atwater  and  Mister  Henry  Rooter!" 

"Oh,  say  not  so,  Florence!"  they  both  entreated. 
"Say  not  so!  Say  not  so!" 

"I'll  just  simply  state  the  simple  truth,"  Florence 
announced.  "In  the  first  place,  you're  goin'  to  live 
to  see  the  day  when  you'll  come  and  beg  me  on  your 
bented  knees  to  have  me  put  poems  or  anything  I 
want  to  in  your  ole  newspaper,  but  I'll  just  laugh 
at  you!  'Indeed?9  I'll  say!  'So  you  comebeggin' 
around  me,  do  you?  Ha,  ha!'  I'll  say!  'I  guess 


GENTLE  JULIA  267 

it's  a  little  too  late  for  that !    Why,  I  wouldn't ' " 

"Oh,  say  not  so,  Florence!     Say  not  so!" 
"'Me  to  allow  you  to  have  one  of  my  peoms?' 
I'll  say,  'Much  less  than  that !'     I'll  say,  'because 
even  if  I  was  wearing  the  oldest  shoes  I  got  in  the 

world  I  wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to "! 

Her  conclusion  was  drowned  out.     "Oh,  Florence, 
say  not  so!     Say  not  so,  Florence!     Say  not  so!" 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

f^l^HE  hateful  entreaty  still  murmured  in  her 
|j  resentful  ears,  that  night,  as  she  fell  asleep; 

•*-  and  she  passed  into  the  beginnings  of  a  dream 
with  her  lips  slightly  dimpling  the  surface  of  her 
pillow  in  belated  repartee.  And  upon  waking, 
though  it  was  Sunday,  her  first  words,  half  slum 
brous  in  the  silence  of  the  morning,  were,  "Vile 
Things!"  Her  faculties  became  more  alert  during 
the  preparation  of  a  toilet  that  was  to  serve  not  only 
for  breakfast,  but  with  the  addition  of  gloves,  a  hat, 
and  a  blue-velvet  coat,  for  Church  and  Sunday- 
school  as  well;  and  she  planned  a  hundred  vengeances. 
That  is  to  say,  her  mind  did  not  occupy  itself  with 
plots  possible  to  make  real;  but  rather  it  dabbled 
among  those  fragmentary  visions  that  love  to  over 
lap  and  displace  one  another  upon  the  changeful 
retina  of  the  mind's  eye. 

In  all  of  these  pictures,  wherein  prevailingly  she 
seemed  to  be  some  sort  of  deathly  powerful  Queen 
of  Poetry,  the  postures  assumed  by  the  figures  of 

268 


GENTLE  JULIA  269 

-i , 

Messrs.  Atwater  and  Rooter  (both  in  an  extremity 
of  rags)  were  miserably  suppliant.  So  she  soothed 
herself  a  little — but  not  long.  Herbert,  in  the  next 
pew,  in  church,  and  Henry  in  the  next  beyond  that, 
were  perfect  compositions  in  smugness.  They  were 
cold,  contented,  aristocratic;  and  had  an  imperturb 
able  understanding  between  themselves  (even  then 
perceptible  to  the  sensitive  Florence)  that  she  was  a 
nuisance  now  capably  disposed  of  by  then*  beautiful 
discovery  of  "Say  not  so!"  Florence's  feelings  were 
unbecoming  to  the  place  and  occasion. 

But  at  four  o'clock,  that  afternoon,  she  was  as 
suaged  into  a  milder  condition  by  the  arrival,  ac 
cording  to  an  agreement  made  in  Sunday-school,  of 
the  popular  Miss  Patty  Fairchild. 

Patty  was  thirteen  and  a  half;  an  exquisite  person 
with  gold-dusted  hair,  eyes  of  singing  blue,  and  an 
alluring  air  of  sweet  self -consciousness.  Henry 
Rooter  and  Herbert  Illingsworth  Atwater,  Jr.,  out 
gathering  news,  saw  her  entering  Florence's  gate, 
and  immediately  forgot  that  they  were  reporters. 
They  became  silent,  gradually  moving  toward  the 
house  of  their  newspaper's  sole  poetess. 

Florence  and  Patty  occupied  themselves  indoors 
for  half  an  hour;  then  went  out  in  the  yard  to  study  a 


270  GENTLE  JULIA 

mole's  tunnel  that  had  interested  Florence  recently. 
They  followed  it  across  the  lawn  at  the  south  side 
of  the  house,  discussing  the  habits  of  moles  and  other 
matters  of  zoology;  and  finally  lost  the  track  near  the 
fence,  which  was  here  the  "side  fence"  and  higher 
than  their  heads.  Patty  looked  through  a  knot-hole 
to  see  if  the  tunnel  was  visible  in  the  next  yard,  but, 
without  reporting  upon  her  observations,  she  turned, 
as  if  carelessly,  and  leaned  back  against  the  fence, 
covering  the  knot-hole. 

" Florence,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  softer  than  she 
had  been  using  heretofore; — "Florence,  do  you  know 
what  I  think?" 

"No.     Could  you  see  any  more  tracks  over  there?  " 

"Florence,"  said  Patty; — "I  was  just  going  to 
tell  you  something,  only  maybe  I  better  not." 

"Why  not?"  Florence  inquired.  "Go  on  and 
tell  me." 

"No,"  said  Patty  gently.  "You  might  think  it 
was  silly." 

"No,  I  won't." 

"Yes,  you  might." 

"I  promise  I  won't." 

"Well,  then — oh,  Florence  I'm  sure  you'll  think 
it's  silly!" 


GENTLE  JULIA  271 

"I  promised  I  wouldn't." 

« Well— I  don't  think  I  better  say  it." 

"Go  on,"  Florence  urged.     "Patty,  you  got  to." 

"Well,  then,  if  I  got  to,"  said  Patty.  "What  I 
was  going  to  say,  Florence:  Don't  you  think  your 
cousin  Herbert  and  Henry  Rooter  have  got  the  nicest 
eyes  of  any  boy  in  town?" 

"Who  ?"  Florence  was  astounded. 

"I  do,"  Patty  said  in  her  charming  voice.  "I 
'think  Herbert  and  Henry 've  got  the  nicest  eyes  of 
any  boy  in  town." 

"You  do?"     Florence  cried  incredulously. 

"Yes,  I  really  do,  Florence.  I  think  Herbert 
Atwater  and  Henry  Rooter  have  got  the  nicest 
eyes  of  any  boy  in  town." 

"Well,  I  never  heard  anything  like  this  before!" 
Florence  declared. 

"But  don't  you  think  they've  got  the  nicest  eyes 
of  any  boy  in  town?"  Patty  insisted,  appealingly. 

"I  think,"  said  Florence,  "their  eyes  are  just 
horrable!" 

"What?" 

"Herbert's  eyes,"  continued  Florence,  ardently, 
"are  the  very  worst  lookin'  ole  squinty  eyes  I  ever 
saw,  and  that  nasty  little  Henry  Rooter's  eyes " 


272  GENTLE  JULIA 

But  Patty  had  suddenly  become  fidgety;  she  hurried 
away  from  the  fence.  "Come  over  here,  Florence," 
she  said.  "Let's  go  over  to  the  other  side  of  the 
yard  and  talk." 

It  was  time  for  her  to  take  some  such  action. 
Messrs.  At  water  and  Rooter,  seated  quietly  together 
upon  a  box  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence  (though 
with  their  backs  to  the  knot-hole),  were  begin 
ning  to  show  signs  of  inward  disturbance.  Already 
flushed  with  the  unexpected  ineffabilities  overheard, 
their  complexions  had  grown  even  pinker  upon 
Florence's  open-hearted  expressions  of  opinion. 
Slowly  they  turned  their  heads  to  look  at  the  fence, 
upon  the  other  side  of  which  stood  the  maligner  of 
their  eyes.  Not  that  they  cared  what  that  ole 
girl  thought — but  she  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  to 
go  around  talking  like  this  and  perhaps  prejudic 
ing  everybody  that  had  a  kind  word  to  say  for 
them. 

"Come  on  over  here,  Florence,"  called  Patty 
huskily,  from  the  other  side  of  the  yard.  "Let's 
talk  over  here." 

Florence  was  puzzled,  but  consented.  "What  you 
want  to  talk  over  here  for?"  she  asked  as  she  came 
near  her  friend. 


GENTLE  JULIA  273 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Patty.  "Let's  go  out 
in  the  front  yard." 

She  led  the  way  round  the  house,  and  a  moment 
later  uttered  a  cry  of  surprise  as  the  firm  of  Atwater 
&  Rooter,  passing  along  the  pavement,  hesitated 
at  the  gate.  Their  celebrated  eyes  showed  doubt  for 
a  moment,  then  a  brazenness:  Herbert  and  Henry 
decided  to  come  in. 

"Isn't  this  the  funniest  thing?"  cried  Patty. 
"After  what  I  just  said  awhile  ago — you  know, 
Florence.  Don't  you  dare  to  tell  "em!' 

"I  cert'n'ly  won't!"  her  hostess  promised,  and, 
turning  inhospitably  to  the  two  callers,  "What  on 
earth  you  want  around  here?"  she  inquired. 

Herbert  chivalrously  took  upon  himself  the  duty 
of  response,  "Look  here;  this  is  my  own  aunt  and 
uncle's  yard,  isn't  it?  I  guess  if  I  want  to  come  in 
it  I  got  a  perfect  right  to." 

"I  should  say  so,"  his  partner  said  warmly. 

"Why,  of  course!"  the  cordial  Patty  agreed. 
"We  can  play  some  nice  Sunday  games,  or  some 
thing.  Let's  sit  on  the  porch  steps  and  think  what 
to  do." 

"7  just  as  soon,"  said  Henry  Rooter.  "I  got 
nothin'  p'ticular  to  do." 


274  GENTLE  JULIA 

"I  haven't  either,"   said  Herbert. 

Thereupon,  Patty  sat  between  them  on  the 
steps. 

"This  is  per-fecMy  grand!"  she  cried.  "Come  on, 
Florence,  aren't  you  going  to  sit  down  with  all  the 
rest  of  us?" 

"Well,  pray  kindly  excuse  me!"  said  Miss  At- 
water;  and  she  added  that  she  would  neither  sit 
on  the  same  steps  with  Herbert  Atwater  and  Henry 
Rooter,  nor,  even  if  they  entreated  her  with  accom 
panying  genuflections,  would  she  have  anything 
else  whatever  to  do  with  them.  She  concluded  with 
a  reference  to  the  oldest  pair  of  shoes  she  might  ever 
come  to  possess;  and  withdrew  to  the  railing  of  the 
veranda  at  a  point  farthest  from  the  steps;  and, 
seated  there,  swinging  one  foot  rhythmically,  she 
sang  hymns  in  a  tone  at  once  plaintive  and  in 
imical. 

It  was  not  lost  upon  her,  however,  that  her  with 
drawal  had  little  effect  upon  her  guests.  They 
chattered  gaily,  and  Patty  devised,  or  remembered, 
harmless  little  games  that  could  be  played  by  a  few 
people  as  well  as  by  many;  and  the  three  participants 
were  so  congenial  and  noisy  and  made  so  merry,  that 
before  long  Florence  was  unable  to  avoid  the  im- 


GENTLE  JULIA  275 

pression  that  whether  she  liked  it  or  not  she  was 
giving  quite  a  party. 

At  times  the  noted  eyes  of  Atwater  &  Rooter 
were  gentled  o'er  with  the  soft  cast  of  enchantment, 
especially  when  Patty  felt  called  upon  to  reprove 
the  two  with  little  coquetries  of  slaps  and  pushes. 
Noted  for  her  sprightliness,  she  was  never  sprightlier; 
her  pretty  laughter  tooted  continuously,  and  the  gen 
tlemen  accompanied  it  with  doting  sounds  so  repulsive 
to  Florence  that  without  being  actively  conscious  of 
what  she  did,  she  embodied  the  phrase,  "perfeckly 
sickening,"  in  the  hymn  she  was  crooning,  and  re 
peated  it  over  and  over  to  the  air  of  "Rock  of  Ages." 

"Now  I  tell  you  what  let's  play,"  the  versatile 
Patty  proposed,  after  exhausting  the  pleasures  of 
"Geography,"  "Ghosts"  and  other  tests  of  in 
tellect.  "Let's  play  'Truth.'  We'll  each  take  a 
piece  o'  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  then  each  of  us 
asks  the  other  one  some  question,  and  we  haf  to 
write  down  the  answer  and  sign  your  name  and  fold 
it  up  so  nobody  can  see  it  except  the  one  that  asked 
the  question,  and  we  haf  to  keep  it  a  secret  and  never 
tell  as  long  as  we  live." 

"All  right,"  said  Henry  Rooter.  "I'll  be  the  one 
to  ask  you  a  question,  Patty." 


276  GENTLE  JULIA 

"No,"  Herbert  said  promptly.  "I  ought  to  be 
the  one  to  ask  Patty." 

"Why  ought  you?"  Henry  demanded.  "Why 
ought  you?" 

"Listen!"  Patty  cried,  "7  know  the  way  we'll  do. 
I'll  ask  each  of  you  a  question — we  haf  to  whisper  it — 
and  each  one  of  you'll  ask  me  one,  and  then  we'll 
write  it.  That'll  be  simply  grand!"  She  clapped 
her  hands;  then  checked  herself.  "Oh,  I  guess  we 
can't  either.  We  haven't  got  any  paper  and  pencils 

unless "  Here  she  seemed  to  recall  her  hostess. 

"Oh,  Florrie,  dear!  Run  in  the  house  and  get  us 
some  paper  and  pencils." 

Florence  gave  no  sign  other  than  to  increase  the 
volume  of  her  voice  as  she  sang:  "Perf'ly  sick'ning, 
clef  for  me,  let  me  perf'ly  sick-kin -ning  /" 

"We  got  plenty,"  said  Herbert;  whereupon  he 
and  Henry  produced  pencils  and  their  professional 
note-books,  and  supplied  their  fair  friend  and  them 
selves  with  material  for  "Truth."  "Come  on, 
Patty,  whisper  me  whatever  you  want  to." 

"No;  I  ought  to  have  her  whisper  me,  first," 
Henry  Rooter  objected.  "I'll  write  the  answer  to 
any  question;  I  don't  care  what  it's  about." 

"Well,  it's  got  to  be  the  truth,  you  know,"  Patty 


GENTLE  JULIA  277 

warned  them.  "We  all  haf  to  write  down  just 
exackly  the  truth  on  our  word  of  honour  and  sign 
our  name .  Promise  ? ' ' 

They  promised  earnestly. 

"All  right,"  said  Patty.  "Now  I'll  whisper  Henry 
a  question  first,  and  then  you  can  whisper  yours  to 
me  first,  Herbert." 

This  seemed  to  fill  all  needs  happily,  and  the 
whispering  and  writing  began,  and  continued  with 
a  coziness  little  to  the  taste  of  the  piously  singing 
Florence.  She  altered  all  previous  opinions  of  her 
friend  Patty,  and  when  the  latter  finally  closed  the 
session  on  the  steps,  and  announced  that  she  must 
go  home,  the  hostess  declined  to  accompany  her  into 
the  house  to  help  her  find  where  she  had  left  her  hat 
and  wrap. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  where  I  took  'em  off!" 
Patty  declared  in  the  airiest  manner.  "If  you  won't 
come  with  me,  Florrie,  s'pose  you  just  call  in  the 
front  door  and  tell  your  mother  to  get  'em  for  me." 

"Oh,  they're  somewhere  in  there,"  Florence  said 
coldly,  not  ceasing  to  swing  her  foot,  and  not  turning 
her  head.  "You  can  find  'em  by  yourself,  I  pre 
sume,  or  if  you  can't  I'll  have  our  maid  throw  'em 
out  in  the  yard  or  somep'n  to-morrow." 


278  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Well,  thank  you!"  Miss  Fairchild  rejoined,  as 
she  entered  the  house. 

The  two  boys  stood  waiting,  having  in  mind  to 
go  with  Patty  as  far  as  her  own  gate.  "That's  a 
pretty  way  to  speak  to  company!"  Herbert  ad 
dressed  his  cousin  with  heavily  marked  severity. 
"Next  time  you  do  anything  like  that  I'll  march 
straight  in  the  house  and  inform  your  mother  of  the 
fact." 

Florence  still  swung  her  foot  and  looked  dreamily 
away.  She  sang,  to  the  air  of  "Rock  of  Ages": 

"Henry  Rooter,  Herbert,  too — they  make  me  sick, 
they  make  me  sick,  that's  what  they  do." 

However,  they  were  only  too  well  prepared  with 
their  annihilating  response. 

"Oh,  say  not  so!  Florence,  say  not  so!  Florence! 
Say  not  so!" 

They  even  sent  this  same  odious  refrain  back  to 
her  from  the  street,  as  they  departed  with  their 
lovely  companion;  and,  so  tenuous  is  feminine 
loyalty  sometimes,  under  these  stresses,  Miss  Fair- 
child  mingled  her  sweet,  tantalizing  young  soprano 
with  their  changing  and  cackling  falsetto. 

"Say  not  so,  Florence!  Oh,  say  not  so!  Say  not 
so!"' 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

f"  •  "iHEY  went  satirically  down  the  street,  their 
1  chumminess  with  one  another  bountifully 

•*-  increased  by  their  common  derision  of  the 
outsider  on  the  porch;  and  even  at  a  distance  they 
still  contrived  to  make  themselves  intolerable;  look 
ing  back  over  their  shoulders,  at  intervals,  with 
say-not-so  expressions  on  their  faces.  Even  when 
these  faces  were  far  enough  away  to  be  but  yellowish 
oval  planes,  their  say-not-so  expressions  were  still 
bitingly  eloquent. 

Now  a  northern  breeze  chilled  the  air,  as  the  hate 
ful  three  became  indistinguishable  in  the  haze  of 
autumn  dusk,  whereupon  Florence  stopped  swinging 
her  foot,  left  the  railing,  and  went  morosely  into 
the  house.  And  here  it  was  her  fortune  to  make 
two  discoveries  vital  to  her  present  career;  the  first 
arising  out  of  a  conversation  between  her  father  and 
mother  in  the  library,  where  a  gossipy  fire  of  soft 
coal  encouraged  this  proper  Sunday  afternoon  enter 
tainment  for  man  and  wife. 

279 


280  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Sit  down  and  rest,  Florence,"  said  her  mother. 
"I'm  afraid  you  play  too  hard  when  Patty  and  the 
boys  are  here.  Do  sit  down  quietly  and  rest  yourself 
a  little  while."  And  as  Florence  obeyed,  Mrs.  At- 
water  turned  to  her  husband,  resuming:  "Well, 
that's  what  /  said.  I  told  Aunt  Carrie  I  thought 
the  same  way  about  it  that  you  did.  Of  course  no 
body  ever  knows  what  Julia's  going  to  do  next,  and 
nobody  needs  to  be  surprised  at  anything  she  does 
do.  Ever  since  she  came  home  from  school,  about 
four-fifths  of  all  the  young  men  in  town  have  been 
wild  about  her — and  so's  every  old  bachelor,  for  the 
matter  of  that!" 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Atwater  added.  "And  every  old 
widower,  too." 

His  wife  warmly  accepted  the  amendment.  "And 
every  old  widower,  too,"  she  said,  nodding.  "Rather! 
And  of  course  Julia's  just  done  exactly  as  she  pleased 
about  everything,  and  naturally  she's  going  to  do  as 
she  pleases  about  this.'9 

"Well,  of  course  it's  her  own  affair,  Mollie,"  Mr. 
Atwater  said  mildly.  "She  couldn't  be  expected  to 
consult  the  whole  Atwater  family  connection  be 
fore  she " 

"Oh,  no,"  she  agreed.     "I  don't  say  she  could. 


GENTLE  JULIA  281 

Still,  it  is  rather  upsetting,  coming  so  suddenly  like 
this,  when  not  one  of  the  family  has  ever  seen  him — 
never  even  heard  his  very  name  before." 

"Well,  that  part  of  it  isn't  especially  strange, 
Mollie.  He  was  born  and  brought  up  in  a  town 
three  hundred  miles  from  here.  I  don't  see  just  how 
we  could  have  heard  his  name  unless  he  visited  here 
or  got  into  the  papers  in  some  way." 

Mrs.  At  water  seemed  unwilling  to  yield  a  mysteri 
ous  point.  She  rocked  decorously  in  her  rocking- 
chair,  shook  her  head,  and  after  setting  her  lips 
rigidly,  opened  them  to  insist  that  she  could  never 
change  her  mind:  Julia  had  acted  very  abruptly. 
"Why  couldn't  she  have  let  her  poor  father  know 
at  least  a  few  days  before  she  did?" 

Mr.  Atwater  sighed.  "Why,  she  explains  in  her 
letter  that  she  only  knew  it,  herself,  an  hour  before 
she  wrote." 

"Her  poor  father!"  his  wife  repeated  commiser- 
atingly. 

"Why,  Mollie,  I  don't  see  how  father's  especially 
to  be  pitied." 

"Don't  you?"  said  Mrs.  Atwater.  "That  old 
man,  to  have  to  live  in  that  big  house  all  alone,  ex 
cept  a  few  negro  servants?" 


GENTLE  JULIA 

"Why,  no!  About  half  the  houses  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  up  and  down  the  street,  are  fully  occupied  by 
close  relatives  of  his:  I  doubt  if  he'll  be  really  as 
lonely  as  he'd  like  to  be.  And  he's  often  said  he'd 
give  a  great  deal  if  Julia  had  been  a  plain,  unpopular 
girl.  I'm  strongly  of  the  opinion,  myself,  that  he'll 
be  pleased  about  this.  Of  course  it  may  upset  him  a 
little  at  first." 

"Yes;  I  think  it  will!"  Mrs.  Atwater  shook  her 
head  forebodingly.  "And  he  isn't  the  only  one  it's 
going  to  upset." 

"No,  he  isn't,"  her  husband  admitted  seriously. 
"That's  always  been  the  trouble  with  Julia;  she 
never  could  bear  to  seem  disappointing;  and  so,  of 
course,  I  suppose  every  one  of  'em  has  a  special  idea 
that  he's  really  about  the  top  of  the  list  with  her." 

"Every  last  one  of  'em  is  positive  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Atwater.  "That  was  Julia's  way  with  'em!" 

"Yes,  Julia's  always  been  much  too  kind-hearted 
for  other  people's  good."  Thus  Mr.  Atwater  sum 
med  up  Julia;  and  he  was  her  brother.  Addition 
ally,  since  he  was  the  older,  he  had  known  her  since 
her  birth. 

"If  you  ask  me"  said  his  wife,  "I'll  really  be  sur 
prised  if  it  all  goes  through  without  a  suicide." 


GENTLE  JULIA  283 

"Oh,  not  quite  suicide,  perhaps,"  Mr.  Atwater 
protested.  "I'm  glad  it's  a  fairly  dry  town  though." 

She  failed  to  fathom  his  simple  meaning.  "Why?" 

"Well,  some  of  'em  might  feel  that  desperate  at 
least,"  he  explained.  "Prohibition's  a  safeguard  for 
the  disappointed  in  love." 

This  phrase  and  a  previous  one  stirred  Florence, 
who  had  been  sitting  quietly,  according  to  request, 
and  "resting",  but  not  resting  her  curiosity.  "  Who's 
disappointed  in  love,  papa?"  she  inquired  with  an 
explosive  eagerness  that  slightly  startled  her  pre 
occupied  parents.  "What  is  all  this  about  Aunt 
Julia,  and  grandpa  goin'  to  live  alone,  and  people 
committing  suicide  and  prohibition  and  everything? 
What  is  all  this,  mamma?" 

"Nothing,  Florence." 

"Nothing!  That's  what  you  always  say  about  the 
very  most  inter 'sting  things  that  happen  in  the  whole 
family!  What  is  all  this,  papa?" 

"It's  nothing  that  would  be  interesting  to  little 
girls,  Florence.  Merely  some  family  matters." 

"My  goodness!"  Florence  exclaimed.  "I'm  not  a 
little  girl'  any  more,  papa !  You're  always  forgetting 
my  age!  And  if  it's  a  family  matter  I  belong  to  the 
family,  I  guess,  about  as  much  as  anybody  else,  don't 


284  GENTLE  JULIA 

I?  Grandpa  himself  isn't  any  more  one  of  the  family 
than  I  am,  I  don't  care  how  old  he  is! " 

This  was  undeniable,  and  her  father  laughed. 
"It's  really  nothing  you'd  care  about  one  way  or  the 
other,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I'd  care  about  it  if  it's  a  secret,"  Florence 
insisted.  "If  it's  a  secret  I'd  want  to  know  it,  what 
ever  it's  about." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  a  secret,  particularly,  I  suppose.  At 
least,  it's  not  to  be  made  public  for  a  time;  it's  only 
to  be  known  in  the  family." 

"Well,  didn't  I  just  prove  I'm  as  much  one  o'  the 
family  as " 

"Never  mind,"  her  father  said  soothingly.  "I 
don't  suppose  there's  any  harm  in  your  knowing  it — 
if  you  won't  go  telling  everybody.  Your  Aunt  Julia 
has  just  written  us  that  she's  engaged." 

Mrs.  At  water  uttered  an  exclamation,  but  she  was 
too  late  to  check  him. 

"I'm  afraid  you  oughtn't  to  have  told  Florence. 
She  isn't  just  the  most  discreet " 

"Pshaw!"  he  laughed.  "She  certainly  is  'one  of 
the  family',  however,  and  Julia  wrote  that  all  of  the 
family  might  be  told.  You'll  not  speak  of  it  outside 
the  family,  will  you,  Florence?" 


GENTLE  JULIA  285 

But  Florence  was  not  yet  able  to  speak  of  it,  even 
inside  the  family;  so  surprising,  sometimes,  are 
parents'  theories  of  what  will  not  interest  their 
children.  She  sat  staring,  her  mouth  open,  and 
in  the  uncertain  illumination  of  the  room  these 
symptoms  of  her  emotional  condition  went  unob 
served. 

"I  say,  you  won't  speak  of  Julia's  engagement 
outside  the  family,  will  you,  Florence?" 

"Papa!"  she  gasped.  "Did  Aunt  Julia  write 
she  was  engaged?'9 

"Yes." 

"To  get  married  ?" 

"It  would  seem  so." 


"'To  whom,'  Florence,"  her  mother  suggested 
primly. 

"Mamma!"  the  daughter  cried.  "Who's  Aunt 
Julia  engaged  to  get  married  to?  Noble  Dill?" 

"Good  gracious,  no!"  Mrs.  Atwater  exclaimed. 
"What  an  absurd  idea!  It's  to  a  young  man  in  the 
place  she's  visiting  —  a  stranger  to  all  of  us.  Julia 
only  met  him  a  few  weeks  ago."  Here  she  forgot 
Florence,  and  turned  again  to  her  husband,  wearing 
her  former  expression  of  experienced  foreboding. 


286  GENTLE  JULIA 

"It's  just  as  I  said.  It's  exactly  like  Julia  to  do  such 
a  reckless  thing!" 

"But  as  we  don't  know  anything  at  all  about  the 
young  man,"  he  remonstrated,  "how  do  you  know 
it's  reckless?" 

"How  do  you  know  he's  young?"  Mrs.  Atwater 
retorted  crisply.  "All  in  the  world  she  said  about 
him  was  that  he's  a  lawyer.  He  may  be  a  widower, 
for  all  we  know,  or  divorced,  with  seven  or  eight 
children." 

"Oh,  no,  Mollie!" 

"  Why,  he  might !  "  she  insisted.  "  For  all  we  know, 
he  may  be  a  widower  for  the  third  or  fourth  time,  or 
divorced,  with  any  number  of  children!  If  such  a 
person  proposed  to  Julia,  you  know  yourself  she'd 
hate  to  be  disappointing!" 

Her  husband  laughed.  "I  don't  think  she'd  go 
so  far  as  to  actually  accept  'such  a  person'  and  write 
home  to  announce  her  engagement  to  the  family.  I 
suppose  most  of  her  swains  here  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  proposing  to  her  just  as  frequently  as  she  was 
unable  to  prevent  them  from  going  that  far;  and  while 
I  don't  think  she's  been  as  discouraging  with  them 
as  she  might  have  been,  she's  never  really  accepted 
any  of  'em.  She's  never  been  engaged  before." 


GENTLE  JULIA  287 

"No,"  Mrs.  Atwater  admitted.  "Not  to  this 
extent !  She 's  never  quite  announced  it  to  the  family 
before,  that  is." 

"Yes;  I'd  hate  to  have  Julia's  job  when  she  comes 
back ! "  Julia's  brother  admitted  ruefully. 

"What  job?" 

"Breaking  it  to  her  admirers." 

"Oh,  she  isn't  going  to  do  that!" 

"She'll  have  to,  now,"  he  said.  "She'll  either 
have  to  write  the  news  to  'em,  or  else  tell  'em,  face 
to  face,  when  she  conies  home." 

"She  won't  do  either." 

"Why,  how  could  she  get  out  of  it?" 

His  wife  smiled  pityingly.  "She  hasn't  set  a  time 
for  coming  home,  has  she?  Don't  you  know  enough 
of  Julia's  ways  to  see  she'll  never  in  the  world  stand 
up  to  the  music?  She  writes  that  all  the  family 
can  be  told,  because  she  knows  the  news  will  leak 
out,  here  and  there,  in  confidence,  little  by  little, 
so  by  the  time  she  gets  home  they'll  all  have  been 
through  their  first  spasms,  and  after  that  she  hopes 
they'll  just  send  her  some  forgiving  flowers  and  greet 
her  with  manly  hand-clasps — and  get  ready  to  usher 
at  the  wedding!" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Atwater,   "I'm  afraid  you're 


288  GENTLE  JULIA 

right.  It  does  seem  rather  like  Julia  to  stay  away  till 
the  first  of  the  worst  is  over.  I'm  really  sorry  for 
some  of  'em.  I  suppose  it  will  get  whispered  about, 
and  they'll  hear  it;  and  there  are  some  of  the  poor 
things  that  might  take  it  pretty  hard." 

"'Take  it  pretty  hard!"'  his  wife  echoed  loudly. 
"There's  one  of  'em,  at  least,  who  '11  just  merely  lose 
his  reason!" 

"Which  one?" 

"Noble  Dill." 

At  this,  the  slender  form  of  Florence  underwent  a 
spasmodic  seizure  in  her  chair,  but  as  the  fit  was 
short  and  also  noiseless,  it  passed  without  being 
noticed. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Atwater  thoughtfully.  "I  sup 
pose  he  will." 

"He  certainly  will!"  Mrs.  Atwater  declared. 
"Noble's  mother  told  me  last  week  that  he'd  got 
so  he  was  just  as  liable  to  drop  a  fountain-pen  in  his 
coffee  as  a  lump  of  sugar;  and  when  any  one  speaks 
to  him  he  either  doesn't  know  it,  or  else  jumps. 
When  he  says  anything,  himself,  she  says  they  can 
scarcely  ever  make  out  what  he's  talking  about.  He 
was  trying  enough  before  Julia  went  away;  but 
since  she's  been  gone  Mrs.  Dill  says  he's  like  nothing 


GENTLE  JULIA  289 

in  her  experience.  She  says  he  doesn't  inherit  it;  Mr. 
Dill  wasn't  anything  like  this  about  her." 

Mr.  Atwater  smiled  faintly.  "Mrs.  Dill  wasn't 
anything  like  Julia." 

"No,"  said  his  wife.  "She  was  quite  a  sensible 
girl.  I'd  hate  to  be  in  her  place  now,  though,  when 
she  tells  Noble  about  this." 

"How  can  Mrs.  Dill  tell  him,  since  she  doesn't 
know  it  herself?  " 

"Well — perhaps  she  ought  to  know  it,  so  that  she 
could  till  him.  Somebody  ought  to  tell  him,  and  it 
ought  to  be  done  with  the  greatest  tact.  It  ought  to 
be  broken  to  him  with  the  most  delicate  care  and 
sympathy,  or  the  consequences " 

"Nobody  could  foretell  the  consequences,"  her 
husband  interrupted: — "no  matter  how  tactfully 
it's  broken  to  Noble." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  that's  true.  I  think 
the  poor  thing's  likely  to  lose  his  reason  unless  it  is 
done  tactfully,  though." 

"Do  you  think  we  really  ought  to  tell  Mrs.  Dill, 
Mollie?  ^  I  mean,  seriously:  Do  you?" 

For  some  moments  she  considered  his  question, 
then  replied,  "No.  It's  possible  we'd  be  following  a 
Christian  course  in  doing  it;  but  still  we're  rather 


290  GENTLE  JULIA 

bound  not  to  speak  of  it  outside  the  family,  and  when 
it  does  get  outside  the  family  I  think  we'd  better  not 
be  the  ones  responsible — especially  since  it  might 
easily  be  traced  to  us.  I  think  it's  usually  better  to 
keep  out  of  things  when  there's  any  doubt." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  meditating.  "I  never  knew  any 
harm  to  come  of  people's  sticking  to  their  own 
affairs." 

But  as  he  and  his  wife  became  silent  for  a  time, 
musing  in  the  firelight,  their  daughter's  special  con 
victions  were  far  from  coinciding  with  theirs,  al 
though  she,  likewise,  was  silent — a  singularity  they 
should  have  observed.  So  far  were  they  from  a  true 
comprehension  of  her,  they  were  unaware  that  she 
had  more  than  a  casual,  young-cousinly  interest  in 
Julia  Atwater's  engagement  and  in  those  possible 
consequences  to  Noble  Dill  just  sketched  with 
some  intentional  exaggeration.  They  did  not  even 
notice  her  expression  when  Mr.  Atwater  snapped 
on  the  light,  in  order  to  read;  and  she  went  quietly 
out  of  the  library  and  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room. 

On  the  floor,  near  her  bed,  where  Patty  Fairchild 
had  left  her  coat  and  hat,  Florence  made  another 
discovery.  Two  small,  folded  slips  of  paper  lay 


GENTLE  JULIA  291 

there,  dropped  by  Miss  Fairchild  when  she  put  on 
her  coat  in  the  darkening  room.  They  were  the 
replies  to  Patty's  whispered  questions  in  the  game 
on  the  steps — the  pledged  Truth,  written  by  Henry 
Rooter  and  Herbert  Atwater  on  their  sacred  words 
and  honours.  The  infatuated  pair  had  either  over 
estimated  Patty's  caution,  or  else  each  had  thought 
she  would  so  prize  his  little  missive  that  she  would 
treasure  it  in  a  tender  safety,  perhaps  pinned  upon 
her  blouse  (at  the  first  opportunity)  over  her  heart. 
It  is  positively  safe  to  say  that  neither  of  the  two 
veracities  would  ever  have  been  set  upon  paper  had 
Herbert  and  Henry  any  foreshadowing  that  Patty 
might  be  careless;  and  the  partners  would  have  been 
seized  with  the  utmost  horror  could  they  have  con 
ceived  the  possibility  of  their  trustful  messages  ever 
falling  into  the  hands  of  the  relentless  creature  who 
now,  without  an  instant's  honourable  hesitation,  un 
folded  and  read  them. 

"  Yes  if  I  got  to  tell  the  truth  I  know  I  have  got  pretty 
eyes"  Herbert  had  unfortunately  written.  "I  am 
glad  you  think  so  too  Patty  because  your  eyes  are 
too  Herbert  Illingsworth  Atwater,  Jr" 

And  Mr.  Henry  Rooter  had  likewise  ruined  him 
self  in  a  coincidental  manner: 


GENTLE  JULIA 

"  Well  Patty  my  eyes  are  pretty  but  suppose  I  would 
like  to  trade  with  yours  because  you  have  beautiful  eyes 
also,  sure  as  my  name  is  Henry  Rooter." 

Florence  stood  close  to  the  pink-shaded  electric 
drop-light  over  her  small  white  dressing-table,  read 
ing  again  and  again  these  pathetically  honest  little 
confidences.  Her  eyelids  were  withdrawn  to  an  un 
precedented  retirement,  so  remarkably  she  stared; 
while  her  mouth  seemed  to  prepare  itself  for  the 
attempted  reception  of  a  bulk  beyond  its  capacity. 
And  these  plastic  tokens,  so  immoderate  as  to  be 
ordinarily  the  consequence  of  nothing  short  of 
horror,  were  overlaid  by  others,  subtler  and  more 
gleaming,  which  wrought  the  true  significance  of 
the  contortion — a  joy  that  was  dumfounding. 

Her  thoughts  were  first  of  Fortune's  kindness  in 
selecting  her  for  a  favour  so  miraculously  dovetailing 
into  the  precise  need  of  her  life;  then  she  considered 
Henry  and  Herbert,  each  at  this  hour  probably 
brushing  his  hair  in  preparation  for  the  Sunday 
evening  meal,  and  both  touchingly  unconscious  of 
the  calamity  now  befalling  them;  but  what  even 
tually  engrossed  her  mind  was  a  thought  about 
Wallie  Torbin. 

This  Master  Torbin,  fourteen  years  of  age,  was  in 


GENTLE  JULIA  293 

all  the  town  the  boy  most  dreaded  by  his  fellow-boys, 
and  also  by  girls,  including  many  of  both  sexes  who 
knew  him  only  by  sight — and  hearing.  He  had  no 
physical  endowment  or  attainment  worth  mention; 
but  boys  who  could  "whip  him  with  one  hand" 
became  sycophants  in  his  presence;  the  terror  he 
inspired  was  moral.  He  had  a  special  over-develop 
ment  of  a  faculty  exercised  clumsily  enough  by  most 
human  beings,  especially  in  their  youth;  in  other 
words,  he  had  a  genius — not,  however,  a  genius 
having  to  do  with  anything  generally  recognized  as 
art  or  science.  True,  if  he  had  been  a  violinist 
prodigy  or  mathematical  prodigy,  he  would  have  had 
some  respect  from  his  fellows — about  equal  to  that 
he  might  have  received  if  he  were  gifted  with  some 
pleasant  deformity,  such  as  six  toes  on  a  foot — but 
he  would  never  have  enjoyed  such  deadly  prestige 
as  had  actually  come  to  be  his.  In  brief,  then, 
Wallie  Torbin  had  a  genius  for  mockery. 

Almost  from  his  babyhood  he  had  been  a  child  of 
one  purpose:  to  increase  by  burlesques  the  sufferings 
of  unfortunate  friends.  If  one  of  them  wept,  Wallie 
incessantly  pursued  him,  yelping  in  horrid  mimicry; 
if  one  were  chastised  he  could  not  appear  out-of- 
doers  for  days  except  to  encounter  Wallie  and  a 


294  GENTLE  JULIA 

complete  rehearsal  of  the  recent  agony.  "Quit, 
Papa!  Paft-puh,  quee-yet!  I'll  never  do  it  again, 
Pah-puh!  Oh,  lemme  alone,  Pah-puh!" 

As  he  grew  older,  his  insatiate  curiosity  enabled 
him  to  expose  unnumbered  weaknesses,  indiscretions, 
and  social  misfortunes  on  the  part  of  acquaintances 
and  schoolmates;  and  to  every  exposure  his  noise 
and  energy  gave  a  hideous  publicity :  the  more  his 
victim  sought  privacy  the  more  persistently  he  was 
followed  by  Wallie,  vociferous  and  attended  by 
hilarious  spectators.  But  above  all  other  things, 
what  most  stimulated  the  demoniac  boy  to  prodigies 
of  satire  was  a  tender  episode  or  any  symptom  con 
nected  with  the  dawn  of  love.  Florence  herself  had 
suffered  at  intervals  throughout  her  eleventh  sum 
mer  because  Wallie  discovered  that  Georgie  Beck 
had  sent  her  a  valentine;  and  the  humorist's  many, 
many  squealings  of  that  valentine's  affectionate 
quatrain  finally  left  her  unable  to  decide  which  she 
hated  the  more,  Wallie  or  Georgie.  That  was  the 
worst  of  Wallie:  he  never  "let  up";  and  in  Florence's 
circle  there  was  no  more  sobering  threat  than,  "I'll 
tell  Wallie  Torbin!"  As  for  Henry  Rooter  and  Her 
bert  Illingsworth  Atwater,  Jr.,  they  would  as  soon 
have  had  a  Head-hunter  on  their  trail  as  Wallie 


GENTLE  JULIA  295 

Torbin  in  the  possession  of  anything  that  could  in 
criminate  them  in  an  implication  of  love — or  an 
acknowledgment  (in  their  own  handwriting!)  of  their 
own  beauty. 

The  fabric  of  civilized  life  is  interwoven  with 
blackmail: even  some  of  the  noblest  people  do  favours 
for  other  people  who  are  depended  upon  not  to  tell 
somebody  something  that  the  noblest  people  have 
done.  Blackmail  is  born  into  us  all,  and  our  nurses 
teach  us  more  blackmail  by  threatening  to  tell  our 
parents  if  we  won't  do  this  and  that^-and  our  parents 
threaten  to  tell  the  doctor — and  so  we  learn !  Black 
mail  is  part  of  the  daily  life  of  a  child.  Displeased,  his 
first  resort  to  get  his  way  with  other  children  is  a  threat 
to  "tell,"  but  by-and-by  his  experience  discovers 
the  mutual  benefit  of  honour  among  blackmailers. 
Therefore,  at  eight  it  is  no  longer  the  ticket  to 
threaten  to  tell  the  teacher;  and,  a  little  later,  threat 
ening  to  tell  any  adult  at  all  is  considered  something 
of  a  breakdown  in  morals.  Notoriously,  the  code  is 
more  liable  to  infraction  by  people  of  the  physically 
weaker  sex,  for  the  very  reason,  of  course,  that  their 
inferiority  of  muscle  so  frequently  compels  such 
a  sin,  if  they  are  to  have  their  way.  But  for  Florence 
there  was  now  no  such  temptation.  Looking  to  the 


296  GENTLE  JULIA 

demolition  of  Atwater  &  Rooter,  an  exposure  before 
adults  of  the  results  of  "Truth"  would  have  been  an 
effect  of  the  sickliest  pallor  compared  to  what  might 
be  accomplished  by  a  careful  use  of  the  catastrophic 
WallieTorbin. 

On  Sunday  evening  it  was  her  privileged  custom  to 
go  to  the  house  of  fat  old  Great-Uncle  Joseph  and 
remain  until  nine  o'clock,  in  chatty  companionship 
with  Uncle  Joseph  and  Aunt  Carrie,  his  wife,  and  a 
few  other  relatives  (including  Herbert)  who  were  in 
the  habit  of  dropping  in  there,  on  Sunday  evenings. 
In  summer,  lemonade  and  cake  were  frequently 
provided;  in  the  autumn,  one  still  found  cake,  and 
perhaps  a  pitcher  of  clear  new  cider:  apples  were  a 
certainty. 

This  evening  was  glorious:  there  were  apples  and 
cider  and  cake,  with  walnuts,  perfectly  cracked,  and 
a  large  open-hearted  box  of  candy;  for  Uncle  Joseph 
and  Aunt  Carrie  had  foreseen  the  coming  of  several 
more  Atwaters  than  usual,  to  talk  over  the  new 
affairs  of  their  beautiful  relative,  Julia.  Seldom 
have  any  relative's  new  affairs  been  more  thoroughly 
talked  over  than  were  Julia's  that  evening;  though 
all  the  time  by  means  of  symbols,  since  it  was 


GENTLE  JULIA  297 

thought  wiser  that  Herbert  and  Florence  should  not 
yet  be  told  of  Julia's  engagement;  and  Florence's 
parents  were  not  present  to  confess  their  indiscretion. 
Julia  was  referred  to  as  "the  traveller";  other  make 
shifts  were  employed  with  the  most  knowing  caution, 
and  all  the  while  Florence  merely  ate  inscrutably. 
The  more  sincere  Herbert  was  placid;  the  foods  ab 
sorbing  his  attention. 

"Well,  all  I  say  is,  the  traveller  better  enjoy  herself 
on  her  travels,"  said  Aunt  Fanny,  finally,  as  the 
subject  appeared  to  be  wearing  toward  exhaustion. 
"  She  certainly  is  in  for  it  when  the  voyaging  is  over 
and  she  arrives  in  the  port  she  sailed  from,  and  has  to 
show  her  papers.  I  agree  with  the  rest  of  you: 
she'll  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for,  and  most  of  all 
about  the  shortest  one.  My  own  opinion  is  that  the 
shortest  one  is  going  to  burst  like  a  balloon." 

"The  shortest  one,"  as  the  demure  Florence  had 
understood  from  the  first,  was  none  other  than  her 
Very  Ideal.  Now  she  looked  up  from  the  stool 
where  she  sat  with  her  back  against  a  pilaster  of  the 
mantelpiece.  "Uncle  Joseph,"  she  said; — "I  was 
just  thinking.  What  is  a  person's  reason? " 

The  fat  gentleman,  rosy  with  firelight  and  cider, 
finished  his  fifth  glass  before  responding.  "Well, 


298  GENTLE  JULIA 

there  are  persons  I  never  could  find  any  reason  for  at 
all.  'A  person's  reason'?  What  do  you  mean,  'a 
person's  reason,'  Florence?" 

"I  mean:  like  when  somebody  says,  'They'll  lose 
their  reason,"'  she  explained.  "Has  everybody 
got  a  reason,  and  if  they  have,  what  is  it,  and  how  do 
they  lose  it,  and  what  would  they  do  then?" 

"Oh!  I  see!"  he  said.  "You  needn't  worry.  I 
suppose  since  you  heard  it  you've  been  hunting  all 
over  yourself  for  your  reason  and  looking  to  see  if 
there  was  one  hanging  out  of  anybody  else,  some 
where.  No;  it's  something  you  can't  see,  ordinarily, 
Florence.  Losing  your  reason  is  just  another  way 
of  saying,  'going  crazy'!" 

"Oh!"  she  murmured,  and  appeared  to  be  dis 
turbed. 

At  this,  Herbert  thought  proper  to  offer  a  witticism 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  company. 

"  You  know,  Florence,"  he  said,  "it  only  means  act 
ing  like  you  most  always  do."  He  applauded  himself 
with  a  burst  of  changing  laughter  ranging  from  a  bull 
frog  croak  to  a  collapsing  soprano;  then  he  added: 
"Espeshually  when  you  come  around  my  and  Hen 
ry's  Newspaper  Building!  You  cert'nly  lose  your 
reason'  every  time  you  come  around  that  ole  place ! " 


GENTLE  JULIA  299 

"Well,  course  I  haf  to  act  like  the  people  that's 
already  there,"  Florence  retorted,  not  sharply,  but 
in  a  musing  tone  that  should  have  warned  him.  It 
was  not  her  wont  to  use  a  quiet  voice  for  repartee. 
Thinking  her  humble,  he  laughed  the  more  rau 
cously. 

"Oh,  Florence!"  he  besought  her.  "Say  not  so! 
Say  not  so!" 

"Children,  children!"  Uncle  Joseph  remonstrated. 

Herbert  changed  his  tone;  be  became  seriously 
plaintive.  "Well,  she  does  act  that  way,  Uncle 
Joseph!  When  she  comes  around  there  you'd  think 
we  were  runnin'  a  lunatic  asylum,  the  way  she  takes 
on.  She  hollers  and  bellers  and  squalls  and  squawks. 
The  least  little  teeny  thing  she  don't  like  about 
the  way  we  run  our  paper,  she  comes  flappin'  over 
there  and  goes  to  screechin'  around  you  could  hear 
her  out  at  the  Poor  House  Farm ! " 

"Now,  now,  Herbert,"  his  Aunt  Fanny  interposed. 
"Poor  little  Florence  isn't  saying  anything  impolite 
to  you — not  right  now,  at  any  rate.  Why  don't 
you  be  a  little  sweet  to  her  just  for  once?" 

Her  unfortunate  expression  revolted  all  the  man 
liness  in  Herbert's  bosom.  "  Be  a  little  sweet  to  her?  " 
he  echoed  with  poignant  incredulity,  and  then  in 


300  GENTLE  JULIA 

candour  made  plain  how  poorly  Aunt  Fanny  inspired 
him.  "I  just  exackly  as  soon  be  a  little  sweet  to  an 
alligator,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  oh ! "  said  Aunt  Carrie. 

"I  would!"  Herbert  insisted.  "Or  a  mosquito 
I'd  rather,  to  either  of  'em,  'cause  anyway  they  don't 
make  so  much  noise.  Why,  you  just  ought  to  hear 
her,"  he  went  on,  growing  more  and  more  severe. 
"You  ought  to  just  come  around  our  Newspaper 
Building  any  afternoon  you  please,  after  school,  when 
Henry  and  I  are  tryin'  to  do  our  work  in  anyway 
some  peace.  Why,  she  just  squawks  and  squalls 
andsqu " 

"It  must  be  terrible,"  Uncle  Joseph  interrupted. 

"What  do  you  do  all  that  for,  Florence,  every  after- 

?,, 
x^v,^. 

"Just  for  exercise,"  she  answered  dreamily;  and  her 
placidity  the  more  exasperated  her  journalist  cousin. 

"She  does  it  because  she  thinks  she  ought  to  be 
runnin'  our  own  newspaper,  my  and  Henry's;  that's 
why  she  does  it!  She  thinks  she  knows  more  about 
how  to  run  newspapers  than  anybody  alive;  but 
there's  one  thing  she's  goin'  to  find  out;  and  that  is, 
she  don't  get  anything  more  to  do  with  my  and 
Henry's  newspaper.  We  wouldn't  have  another  single 


GENTLE  JULIA  301 

one  of  her  ole  poems  in  it,  no  matter  how  much  she 
offered  to  pay  us!  Uncle  Joseph,  I  think  you  ought 
to  tell  her  she's  got  no  business  around  my  and 
Henry's  Newspaper  Building/' 

"But,  Herbert,"  Aunt  Fanny  suggested; — "you 
might  let  Florence  have  a  little  share  in  it  of  some 
sort.  Then  everything  would  be  all  right." 

"It  would?"  he  said.  "It  woo-wud?  Oh,  my 
goodness,  Aunt  Fanny,  I  guess  you'd  like  to  see  our 
newspaper  just  utterably  ruined !  Why,  we  wouldn't 
let  that  girl  have  any  more  to  do  with  it  than  we 
would  some  horse!" 

"Oh,  oh!"  both  Aunt  Fanny  and  Aunt  Carrie 
exclaimed,  shocked. 

"We  wouldn't,"  Herbert  insisted.  "A  horse 
would  know  any  amount  more  how  to  run  a  news 
paper  than  she  does.  Soon  as  we  got  our  printing- 
press,  we  said  right  then  that  we  made  up  our  minds 
Florence  Atwater  wasn't  ever  goin'  to  have  a  single 
thing  to  do  with  our  newspaper.  If  you  let  her  have 
anything  to  do  with  anything  she  wants  to  run  the 
whole  thing.  But  she  might  just  as  well  learn  to 
stay  away  from  our  Newspaper  Building,  because 
after  we  got  her  out  yesterday  we  fixed  a  way  so's 
she'll  never  get  in  there  again!" 


302  GENTLE  JULIA 

Florence  looked  at  him  demurely.  "Are  you  sure, 
Herbert?"  she  inquired. 

"Just  you  try  it!"  he  advised  her,  and  he  laughed 
tauntingly.  "Just  come  around  to-morrow  and 
try  it;  that's  all  I  ask!" 

"I  cert'nly  intend  to,"  she  responded  with  dignity. 
"I  may  have  a  slight  supprise  for  you." 

"Oh,  Florence,  say  not  so!  Say  not  so,  Florence! 
Say  not  so!"  '•  t 

At  this,  she  looked  full  upon  him,  and  already  she 
had  something  in  the  nature  of  a  surprise  for  him; 
for  so  powerful  was  the  still  balefulness  of  her  glance 
that  he  was  slightly  startled.  "I  might  say  not 
so,"  she  said.  "I  might,  if  I  was  speaking  of  what 
pretty  eyes  you  say  yourself  you  know  you  have, 
Herbert." 

It  staggered  him.     "What — what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  nothin',"  she  replied  airily. 

Herbert  began  to  be  mistrustful  of  the  solid  earth: 
somewhere  there  was  a  fearful  threat  to  his  equipoise. 
"What  you  talkin'  about?"  he  said  with  an  effort 
to  speak  scornfully;  but  his  sensitive  voice  almost 
failed  him. 

"Oh,  nothin',"  said  Florence.  "Just  about  what 
pretty  eyes  you  know  you  have,  and  Patty's  being 


GENTLE  JULIA  303 

pretty,  too,  and  so  you're  glad  she  thinks  yours  are 
pretty,  the  way  you  do — and  everything!" 

Herbert  visibly  gulped.  He  believed  that  Patty 
had  betrayed  him;  had  betrayed  the  sworn  con 
fidence  of  " Truth!" 

"That's  all  I  was  talkin'  about,"  Florence  added. 
"Just  about  how  you  knew  you  had  such  pretty  eyes. 
Say  not  so,  Herbert!  Say  not  so!" 

"Look  here!"  he  said.  "When'd  you  see  Patty 
again  between  this  afternoon  and  when  you  came 
over  here?" 

"What  makes  you  think  I  saw  her?" 

"Did  you  telephone  her?" 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

Once  more  Herbert  gulped.  "Well,  I  guess  you're 
ready  to  believe  anything  anybody  tells  you,"  he 
said,  with  palsied  bravado.  "You  don't  believe 
everything  Patty  Fairchild  says,  do  you?" 

"Why,  Herbert!  Doesn't  she  always  tell  the 
truth?" 

"Her?  Why,  half  the  time,"  poor  Herbert 
babbled,  "you  can't  tell  whether  she's  just  makin' 
up  what  she  says  or  not.  If  you've  gone  and  be 
lieved  everything  that  ole  girl  told  you,  you  haven't 
got  even  what  little  sense  I  used  to  think  you  had!" 


304  GENTLE  JULIA 

So  base  we  are  under  strain,  sometimes — so  base 
when  our  good  name  is  threatened  with  the  truth 
of  us!  "I  wouldn't  believe  anything  she  said,"  he 
added,  in  a  sickish  voice,  "if  she  told  me  fifty  times 
and  crossed  her  heart!" 

"Wouldn't  you  if  she  said  you  wrote  down  how 
pretty  you  knew  your  eyes  were,  Herbert?  Wouldn't 
you  if  it  was  on  paper  in  your  own  handwrit- 
ing?" 

"What's  this  about  Herbert  having  'pretty  eyes'?" 
Uncle  Joe  inquired,  again  bringing  general  atten 
tion  to  the  young  cousins;  and  Herbert  shuddered. 
This  fat  uncle  had  an  unpleasant  reputation  as  a 
joker. 

The  nephew  desperately  fell  back  upon  the  hope 
less  device  of  attempting  to  drown  out  his  op 
ponent's  voice  as  she  began  to  reply.  He  became 
vociferous  with  scornful  laughter,  badly  cracked. 
"Florence  got  mad!"  he  shouted,  mingling  the  pur 
ported  information  with  hoots  and  cacklings.  "She 
got  mad  because  I  and  Henry  played  some  games 
with  Patty  and  wouldn't  let  her  play!  She's  tryin' 
to  make  up  stories  on  us  to  get  even.  She  made  it 
up!  It's  all  made  up!  She " 

"No,  no,"  Mr.  Atwater  interrupted.     "Let  Flor- 


GENTLE  JULIA  305 

ence  tell  us.  Florence,  what  was  it  about  Herbert's 
knowing  he  had  'pretty  eyes'?" 

Herbert  attempted  to  continue  the  drowning  out. 
He  bawled.  "She  made  it  up!  It's  somep'n  she 
made  up  herself!  She " 

"Herbert,"  said  Uncle  Joseph; — "if  you  don't 
keep  quiet,  I'll  take  back  the  printing-press." 

Herbert  substituted  a  gulp  for  the  continuation 
of  his  noise. 

"Now,  Florence,"  said  Uncle  Joseph,  "tell  us  what 
you  were  saying  about  how  Herbert  knows  he  has 
such  'pretty  eyes'." 

Then  it  seemed  to  Herbert  that  a  miracle  befell. 
Florence  looked  up,  smiling  modestly.  "Oh,  it 
wasn't  anything,  Uncle  Joseph,"  she  said.  "I  was 
just  trying  to  tease  Herbert  any  way  I  could  think 
of/' 

"Oh,  was  that  all?"  A  hopeful  light  faded  out  of 
Uncle  Joseph's  large  and  inexpressive  face.  "I 
thought  perhaps  you'd  detected  him  in  some  in 
discretion." 

Florence  laughed,  "I  was  just  teasin'  him.  It 
wasn't  anything,  Uncle  Joseph." 

Hereupon,  Herbert  resumed  a  confused  breathing. 
Dazed,  he  remained  uneasy,  profoundly  so:  and 


306  GENTLE  JULIA 

gratitude  was  no  part  of  his  emotion.  He  well 
understood  that  in  conflicts  such  as  these  Florence 
was  never  susceptible  to  impulses  of  compassion; 
in  fact,  if  there  was  warfare  between  them,  experi 
ence  had  taught  him  to  be  wariest  when  she  seemed 
kindest.  He  moved  away  from  her,  and  went  into 
another  room  where  his  condition  was  one  of  increas 
ing  mental  discomfort,  though  he  looked  over  the 
pictures  in  his  great-uncle's  copy  of  "Paradise  Lost." 
These  illustrations,  by  M.  Gustave  Dore,  failed  to 
aid  in  reassuring  his  troubled  mind. 

When  Florence  left  the  house,  he  impulsively  ac 
companied  her,  maintaining  a  nervous  silence  as 
they  walked  the  short  distance  between  Uncle 
Joseph's  front  gate  and  her  own.  There,  however,  he 
spoke. 

"Look  here!  You  don't  haf  to  go  and  believe 
everything  that  ole  girl  told  you,  do  you?" 

"No,"  said  Florence  heartily.     "I  don't  haf  to." 
"Well,  look  here,"  he  urged,  helpless  but  to  repeat. 
"You  don't  haf  to  believe  whatever  it  was  she  went 
and  told  you,  do  you?" 

"What  was  it  you  think  she  told  me,  Herbert?" 
"All  that  guff — you  know.    Well,  whatever  it  was 
you  said  she  told  you." 


GENTLE  JULIA  307 

"I  didn't,"  said  Florence.  "I  didn't  say  she  told 
me  anything  at  all." 

"Well,  she  did,  didn't  she?" 

"  Why,  no,"  Florence  replied,  lightly.  "  She  didn't 
say  anything  to  me.  Only  I'm  glad  to  have  your 
opinion  of  her,  how  she's  such  a  story-teller  and  all — 
if  I  ever  want  to  tell  her,  and  everything!" 

But  Herbert  had  greater  alarms  than  this,  and  the 
greater  obscured  the  lesser.  "Look  here,"  he  said, 
"if  she  didn't  tell  you,  how'd  you  know  it  then?" 

"How'dlknowwhat?" 

"That — that  big  story  about  my  ever  writin'  I 
knew  I  had" — he  gulped  again — "pretty  eyes." 

"Oh,  about  that!"  Florence  said,  and  swung  the 
gate  shut  between  them.  "Well,  I  guess  it's  too 
late  to  tell  you  to-night,  Herbert;  but  maybe  if  you 
and  that  nasty  little  Henry  Rooter  do  every  single 
thing  I  tell  you  to,  and  do  it  just  exackly  like  I  tell 
you  from  this  time  on,  why  maybe — I  only  say  'may 
be' — well,  maybe  I'll  tell  you  some  day  when  I  feel 
like  it." 

She  ran  up  the  path  and  up  the  veranda  steps, 
but  paused  before  opening  the  front  door,  and  called 
back  to  the  waiting  Herbert: 

"  The  only  person  I'd  ever  think  of  tellin'  about  it 


308  GENTLE  JULIA 

before  I  tell  you  would  be  a  boy  I  know."  She 
coughed,  and  added  as  by  an  afterthought,  "He'd 
just  love  to  know  all  about  it;  I  know  he  would.  So, 
when  I  tell  anybody  about  it  I'll  only  tell  just  you 
and  this  other  boy." 

"What  other  boy?"  Herbert  demanded. 

And  her  reply,  thrilling  through  the  darkness,  left 
him  demoralized  with  horror. 

"WallieTorbin!" 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

PTT^HE  next  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  Her- 
1  bert  stood  gloomily  at  the  main  entrance 

-^  of  Atwater  &  Rooter's  Newspaper  Building 
awaiting  his  partner.  The  other  entrances  were  not 
only  nailed  fast  but  massively  barricaded;  and  this 
one  (consisting  of  the  ancient  carriage-house  doors, 
opening  upon  a  driveway  through  the  yard)  had  re 
cently  been  made  effective  for  exclusion.  A  long 
and  heavy  plank  leaned  against  the  wall,  near  by, 
ready  to  be  set  in  hook-shaped  iron  supports  fastened 
to  the  inner  sides  of  the  doors;  and  when  the  doors 
were  closed,  with  this  great  plank  in  place,  a  person 
inside  the  building  might  seem  entitled  to  count 
upon  the  enjoyment  of  privacy,  except  in  case  of 
earthquake,  tornado,  or  fire.  In  fact,  the  size  of 
the  plank  and  the  substantial  quality  of  the  iron 
fastenings  could  be  looked  upon,  from  a  certain 
viewpoint,  as  a  real  compliment  to  the  energy  and 
persistence  of  Florence  Atwater. 

Herbert  had  been  in  no  complimentary  frame  of 

309 


310  GENTLE  JULIA 

mind,  however,  when  he  devised  the  obstructions, 
nor  was  he  now  in  such  a  frame  of  mind.  He  was 
pessimistic  in  regard  to  his  future,  and  also  embar 
rassed  in  anticipation  of  some  explanations  it  would 
be  necessary  to  make  to  his  partner.  He  strongly 
hoped  that  Henry's  regular  after-school  appearance 
at  the  Newspaper  Building  would  precede  Florence's, 
because  these  explanations  required  both  deliberation 
and  tact,  and  he  was  convinced  that  it  would  be 
almost  impossible  to  make  them  at  all  if  Florence 
got  there  first. 

He  understood  that  he  was  unfortunately  within 
her  power;  and  he  saw  that  it  would  be  dangerous 
to  place  in  operation  for  her  exclusion  from  the  Build 
ing  this  new  mechanism  contrived  with  such  hopeful 
care,  and  at  a  cost  of  two  dollars  and  twenty -five  cents 
taken  from  the  Oriole's  treasury.  What  he  wished 
Henry  to  believe  was  that  for  some  good  reason, 
which  Herbert  had  not  yet  been  able  to  invent,  it 
would  be  better  to  show  Florence  a  little  politeness. 
He  had  a  desperate  hope  that  he  might  find  some 
diplomatic  way  to  prevail  on  Henry  to  be  as  sub 
servient  to  Florence  as  she  had  seemed  to  demand, 
and  he  was  determined  to  touch  any  extremity  of 
unveracity,  rather  than  permit  the  details  of  his 


GENTLE  JULIA  311 

answer  in  "Truth"  to  come  to  his  partner's  knowl 
edge.  Henry  Rooter  was  not  Wallie  Torbin;  but 
in  possession  of  material  such  as  this  he  could  easily 
make  himself  intolerable. 

Therefore,  it  was  in  a  flurried  state  of  mind  that 
Herbert  waited ;  and  when  his  friend  appeared,  over  the 
fence,  his  perturbation  was  not  decreased.  He  even 
failed  to  notice  the  unusual  gravity  of  Henry's  manner. 

"Hello,  Henry!  I  thought  I  wouldn't  start  in 
working  till  you  got  here.  I  didn't  want  to  haf  to 
come  all  the  way  downstairs  again  to  open  the  door 
and  hi'st  our  good  ole  plank  up  again." 

"I  see,"  said  Henry,  glancing  nervously  at  their 
good  ole  plank.  "Well,  I  guess  Florence'll  never  get 
in  this  good  ole  door — that  is,  she  won't  if  we  don't 
let  her,  or  something." 

This  final  clause  would  have  astonished  Herbert 
if  he  had  been  less  preoccupied  with  his  troubles. 
"You  bet  she  won't!"  he  said  mechanically.  "She 
couldn't  ever  get  in  here  again — if  the  family  didn't 
go  intafering  around  and  give  me  the  dickens  and 
everything,  because  they  think — they  say  they  do, 
anyhow — they  say  they  think — they  think " 

He  paused,  disguising  a  little  choke  as  a  cough  of 
scorn  for  the  family's  thinking. 


312  GENTLE  JULIA 

"What  did  you  say  your  family  think?"  Henry 
asked  absently. 

"Well,  they  say  we  ought  to  let  her  have  a  share 
in  our  newspaper."  Again  he  paused,  afraid  to 
continue  lest  his  hypocrisy  appear  so  bare-faced  as 
to  invite  suspicion.  "Well,  maybe  we  ought," 
he  said  finally,  his  eyes  guiltily  upon  his  toe,  which 
slowly  scuffed  the  ground.  "I  don't  say  we  ought, 
and  I  don't  say  we  oughtn't." 

He  expected  at  the  least  a  sharp  protest  from  his 
partner,  who,  on  the  contrary,  surprised  him. 
"Well,  that's  the  way  /  look  at  it,"  Henry  said. 
"I  don't  say  we  ought  and  I  don't  say  we  oughtn't." 

And  he,  likewise,  stared  at  the  toe  of  a  shoe  that 
scuffed  the  ground.  Herbert  felt  a  little  better;  this 
particular  subdivision  of  his  difficulties  seemed  to  be 
working  out  with  unexpected  ease. 

"I  don't  say  we  will  and  I  don't  say  we  won't," 
Henry  added.  "That's  the  way  I  look  at  it.  My 
father  and  mother  are  always  talkin'  to  me:  how 
I  got  to  be  polite  and  everything,  and  I  guess  maybe 
it's  time  I  began  to  pay  some  'tention  to  what  they 
say.  You  don't  have  your  father  and  mother  for 
always,  you  know,  Herbert." 

Herbert's  mood  at  once  chimed  with  this  unpre- 


GENTLE  JULIA  313 

cedented  filial  melancholy.  "No,  you  don't,  Henry. 
That's  what  I  often  think  about,  myself.  No,  sir, 
a  fellow  doesn't  have  his  father  and  mother  to  advise 
him  our  whole  life,  and  you  ought  to  do  a  good  deal 
what  they  say  while  they're  still  alive." 

"That's  what  I  say,"  Henry  agreed  gloomily; 
and  then,  without  any  alteration  of  his  tone,  or  of 
the  dejected  thoughtfulness  of  his  attitude,  he 
changed  the  subject  in  a  way  that  painfully  startled 
his  companion.  "Have  you  seen  Wallie  Torbin  tCK 
day,  Herbert?" 

"What!" 

"Have  you  seen  Wallie  Torbin  to-day?" 

Herbert  swallowed.  "Why,  what  makes — what 
makes  you  ask  me  that,  Henry?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  nothin'."  Henry  still  kept  his  eyes  upon 
his  gloomily  scuffing  toe.  "I  just  wondered,  be 
cause  I  didn't  happen  to  see  him  in  school  this  after 
noon  when  I  happened  to  look  in  the  door  of  the 
Eight-A  when  it  was  open.  I  didn't  want  to  know 
on  account  of  anything  particular.  I  just  happened 
to  say  that  about  him  because  I  didn't  have  any 
thing  else  to  think  about  just  then,  so  I  just  happened 
to  think  about  him,the  way  you  do  when  you  haven't 
got  anything  much  on  your  mind  and  might  get  to 


314  GENTLE  JULIA 

thinkin'  about  you  can't  tell  what.  That's  all  the 
way  it  was;  I  just  happened  to  kind  of  wonder  if  he 
was  around  anywhere  maybe." 

Henry's  tone  was  obviously,  even  elaborately, 
sincere;  and  Herbert  was  reassured.  "Well,  I 
didn't  see  him,"  he  responded.  "Maybe  he's 
sick." 

"No,  he  isn't,"  his  friend  said.  "Florence  said 
she  saw  him  chasin'  his  dog  down  the  street  about 


noon." 


At  this  Herbert's  uneasiness  was  uncomfortably 
renewed.  "Florence  did?  Where' d  you  see  Flor 
ence?" 

Mr.  Rooter  swallowed.  "A  little  while  ago," 
he  said,  and  again  swallowed.  "On  the  way  home 
from  school." 

"Look — look  here!"  Herbert  was  flurried  to  the 
point  of  panic.  "Henry — did  Florence — did  she 
go  and  tell  you — did  she  tell  you ?" 

"7  didn't  hardly  notice  what  she  was  talkin' 
about,"  Henry  said  doggedly.  "She  didn't  have 
anything  to  say  that  I'd  ever  care  two  cents  about. 
She  came  up  behind  me  and  walked  along  with  me  a 
ways,  but  I  got  too  many  things  on  my  mind  to 
hardly  pay  the  least  attention  to  anything  she  ever 


GENTLE  JULIA  315 

talks  about.  She's  a  girl  what  I  think  about  her 
the  less  people  pay  any  'tention  to  what  she  says  the 
better  off  they  are." 

"That's  the  way  with  me,  Henry,"  his  partner 
assured  him  earnestly.  "I  never  pay  any  notice 
to  what  she  says.  The  way  I  figure  it  out  about 
her,  Henry,  everybody'd  be  a  good  deal  better  off 
if  nobody  ever  paid  the  least  notice  to  anything  she 
says.  1  never  even  notice  what  she  says,  myself." 

"I  don't  either,"  said  Henry.  "All  I  think  about 
is  what  my  father  and  mother  say,  because  I'm  not 
goin'  to  have  their  advice  all  the  rest  o'  my  life, 
after  they're  dead.  If  they  want  me  to  be  polite, 
why,  I'll  do  it  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it." 

"It's  the  same  way  with  me,  Henry.  If  she  comes 
flappin'  around  here  blattin'  and  blubbin*  how  she's 
goin'  to  have  somep'n  to  do  with  our  newspaper, 
why,  the  only  reason  Td  ever  let  her  would  be  be 
cause  my  family  say  I  ought  to  show  more  polite 
ness  to  her  than  up  to  now.  I  wouldn't  do  it  on  any 
other  account,  Henry." 

"Neither  would  I.  That's  just  the  same  way 
I  look  at  it,  Herbert.  If  I  ever  begin  to  treat  her 
any  better,  she's  got  my  father  and  mother  to  thank, 
not  me.  That's  the  only  reason  Fd  be  willing  to  say 


316  GENTLE  JULIA 

we  better  leave  the  plank  down  and  let  her  in,  if 
she  comes  around  here  like  she's  liable  to." 

"Well,"  said  Herbert.  "I'm  willing.  I  don't 
want  to  get  in  trouble  with  the  family." 

And  they  mounted  the  stairs  to  their  editorial, 
reportorial,  and  printing  rpoms;  and  began  to  work 
in  a  manner  not  only  preoccupied  but  apprehensive. 
At  intervals  they  would  give  each  other  a  furtive 
glance,  and  then  seem  to  reflect  upon  their  fathers' 
and  mothers'  wishes  and  the  troublous  state  of  the 
times.  Florence  did  not  keep  them  waiting  long, 
however. 

She  might  have  been  easier  to  bear  had  her  manner 
of  arrival  been  less  assured.  She  romped  up  the 
stairs,  came  skipping  across  the  old  floor,  swinging 
her  hat  by  a  ribbon,  flung  open  the  gate  in  the  sacred 
railing,  and,  flouncing  into  the  principal  chair,  im 
modestly  placed  her  feet  on  the  table  in  front  of 
that  chair.  Additionally,  such  was  her  lively  hu 
mour,  she  affected  to  light  and  smoke  the  stub  of 
a  lead  pencil.  "Well,  men,"  she  said  heartily,  "I 
don't  want  to  see  any  loafin'  around  here,  men.  I 
expect  I'll  have  a  pretty  good  newspaper  this  week; 
yes,  sir,  a  pretty  good  newspaper,  and  I  guess  you 
men  got  to  jump  around  a  good  deal  to  do  every- 


GENTLE  JULIA  317 

thing  I  think  of,  or  else  maybe  I  guess  I'll  have  to 
turn  you  off.  I  don't  want  to  haf  to  do  that,  men." 

The  blackmailed  partners  made  no  reply,  on  ac 
count  of  an  inability  that  was  perfect  for  the  mo 
ment.  They  stared  at  her  helplessly,  though  not 
kindly;  for  in  their  expressions  the  conflict  between 
desire  and  policy  was  almost  staringly  vivid.  And 
such  was  their  preoccupation,  each  with  the  bitter 
ness  of  his  own  case,  that  neither  wondered  at  the 
other's  strange  complaisance. 

Florence  made  it  clear  to  them  that  henceforth 
she  was  the  editor  of  The  North  End  Daily  Oriole. 
(She  said  she  had  decided  not  to  change  the  name.) 
She  informed  them  that  they  were  to  be  her  printers; 
she  did  not  care  to  get  all  inky  and  nasty  herself, 
she  said.  She  would,  however,  do  all  the  writing  for 
her  newspaper,  and  had  with  her  a  new  poem.  Also, 
she  would  furnish  all  the  news  and  it  would  be 
printed  just  as  she  wrote  it,  and  printed  nicely,  too, 
or  else She  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

Thus  did  this  cool  hand  take  possession  of  an 
established  industry,  and  in  much  the  same  fashion 
did  she  continue  to  manage  it.  There  were  un- 
suppressible  protests;  there  was  covert  anguish; 
there  was  even  a  strike — but  it  was  a  short  one. 


318  GENTLE  JULIA 

When  the  printers  remained  away  from  their  late 
Newspaper  Building,  on  Wednesday  afternoon, 
Florence  had  an  interview  with  Herbert  after  dinner 
at  his  own  door.  He  explained  coldly  that  Henry 
and  he  had  grown  tired  of  the  printing-press  and 
had  decided  to  put  in  all  their  spare  time  building 
a  theatre  in  Henry's  attic;  but  Florence  gave  him  to 
understand  that  the  theatre  could  not  be;  she  pre 
ferred  the  Oriole. 

Henry  and  Herbert  had  both  stopped  "speaking" 
to  Patty  Fairchild,  for  each  believed  her  treacherous 
to  himself;  but  Florence  now  informed  Herbert  that 
far  from  depending  on  mere  hearsay,  she  had  in  her 
own  possession  the  confession  of  his  knowledge  that 
he  had  ocular  beauty;  that  she  had  discovered  the 
paper  where  Patty  had  lost  it;  and  that  it  was  now 
in  a  secure  place,  and  in  an  envelope,  upon  the 
outside  of  which  was  already  written,  "For  Wallie 
Torbin.  Kindness  of  Florence  A." 

Herbert  surrendered. 

So  did  Henry  Rooter,  a  little  later  that  evening, 
after  a  telephoned  conversation  with  the  slave-driver. 

Therefore,  the  two  miserable  printers  were  back 
in  their  places  the  next  afternoon.  They  told  each 
other  that  the  theatre  they  had  planned  wasn't  so 


GENTLE  JULIA  319 

much  after  all;  and  anyhow  your  father  and  mother 
didn't  last  all  your  life,  and  it  was  better  to  do  what 
they  wanted,  and  be  polite  while  they  were  alive. 

And  on  Saturday  the  new  Oriole,  now  in  every 
jot  and  item  the  inspired  organ  of  feminism,  made 
its  undeniably  sensational  appearance. 

A  copy,  neatly  folded,  was  placed  in  the  hand  of 
Noble  Dill,  as  he  set  forth  for  his  place  of  business, 
after  lunching  at  home  with  his  mother.  Florence 
was  the  person  who  placed  it  there;  she  came  hur 
riedly  from  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood,  out 
of  what  yard  or  alley  he  did  not  notice,  and  slipped 
the  little  oblong  sheet  into  his  lax  fingers 

"There!"  she  said  breathlessly.  "There's  a 
good  deal  about  you  in  it  this  week,  Mr.  Dill,  and 
I  guess — I  guess " 

"What,  Florence?" 

"I  guess  maybe  you'll "  She  looked  up  at 

him  shyly;  then,  with  no  more  to  say,  turned  and  ran 
back  in  the  direction  whence  she  had  come.  Noble 
walked  on,  not  at  once  examining  her  little  gift,  but 
carrying  it  absently  in  fingers  still  lax  at  the  end  of 
a  dangling  arm.  There  was  no  life  in  him  for  any 
thing.  Julia  was  away. 

Away!    And  yet  the  dazzling  creature  looked  at 


320  GENTLE  JULIA 

him  from  sky,  from  earth,  from  air;  looked  at  him 
with  the  most  poignant  kindness,  yet  always  shook 
her  head!  She  had  answered  his  first  letter  by  a 
kind  little  note,  his  second  by  a  kinder  and  littler 
one,  and  his  third,  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  by  no 
note  at  all;  but  by  the  kindest  message  (through  one 
of  her  aunts)  that  she  was  thinking  about  him  a  great 
deal.  And  even  this  was  three  weeks  ago.  Since  then 
from  Julia — nothing  at  all! 

But  yesterday  something  a  little  stimulating  had 
happened.  On  the  street,  downtown,  he  had  come 
face  to  face,  momentarily,  with  Julia's  father;  and  for 
the  first  time  in  Noble's  life  Mr.  Atwater  nodded  to 
him  pleasantly.  Noble  went  on  his  way,  elated.  Was 
there  not  something  almost  fatherly  in  this  strange 
greeting? 

An  event  so  singular  might  be  interpreted  in  the 
happiest  way:  What  had  Julia  written  her  father, 
to  change  him  so  toward  Noble?  And  Noble  was 
still  dreamily  interpreting  as  he  walked  down  the 
street  with  The  North  End  Daily  Oriole  idle  in 
an  idle  hand. 

He  found  a  use  for  that  hand  presently,  and,  hav 
ing  sighed,  lifted  it  to  press  it  upon  his  brow,  but  did 
not  complete  the  gesture.  As  his  hand  came  within 


GENTLE  JULIA  321 

the  scope  of  his  gaze,  levelled  on  the  unfathomable 
distance,  he  observed  that  the  fingers  held  a  sheet 
of  printed  paper;  and  he  remembered  Florence. 
Instead  of  pressing  his  brow  he  unfolded  the  journal 
she  had  thrust  upon  him.  As  he  began  to  read, 
his  eye  was  lustreless,  his  gait  slack  and  dreary;  but 
soon  his  whole  demeanour  changed,  it  cannot  be 
said  for  the  better. 

THE  NORTH  END  DAILY  ORIOLE 

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POEMS 

My  Soul  by  Florence  Atwater 

When  my  heart  is  dreary 

Then  my  soul  is  weary 

As  a  bird  with  a  broken  wing 
Who  never  again  will  sing 
Like  the  sound  of  a  vast  amen 
That  comes  from  a  church  of  men. 

When  my  soul  is  dreary 

It  could  never  be  cheery 

But  I  think  of  my  ideal 

And  everything  seems  real 

Like  the  sound  of  the  bright  church  bells  peal. 


322  GENTLE  JULIA 

Poems  by  Florence  Atwater  will  be  in 
the  paper  each  and  every  Sat. 

Advertisements   45c.    each   Up 

Joseph  K.  Atwater  Co. 
127  South  Iowa  St. 
Steam  Pumps 

The  News  of  the  City 


Miss  Florence  Atwater  of  tHis  City 
received  a  mark  of  94  in  History  Examination 
at  the  concusion  of  the  school  Term  last  June. 

Blue  hair  ribbons  are  in  style  again. 

Miss  Patty  Fairchild  of  this  City  has  not 
been  doing  as  well  in  Declamation  lately 
as  formerly. 

MR.  Noble  Dill  of  this  City  is  seldom 
seen  on  the  streets  of  the  City  without 
smoking  a  cigarette. 

Miss  Julia  Atwater  of  this  City  is  out 
of  the  City. 

The  MR.  Rayfort  family  of  this  City 
have  been  presentde  with  the  present 
of  a  new  Cat  by  Geo.  the  man  employeD  by 
Balf  85  CO.     This  cat  is  perfectly 
baeutiful  and  still  quit  young. 

Miss  Julia  Atwater  of  this  City  is  visiting 
friends  in  the  Soth.     The  family  have  had 
many  letters  from  her  that  are  read  by  each 
and  all  of  the  famild. 


GENTLE  JULIA  323 

Mr.  Noble  Dill  of  this  City  is  in  business 
with  his  Father. 

There  was  quite  a  wind  storm  Thursday  doing 
damage  to  shade  trees  in  many  parts  of  our 
beautiful  City. 

From  Letters  to  the  family  Miss  Julia 
Atwater  of  this  City  is  enjoying  her  visit 
in  the  south  a  greadeal. 

Miss  Patty  Fairchild  of  the  7  A  of  this 
City,  will  probably  not  pass  in  ARithmetiC — 
unless  great  improvement  takes  place  before 
Examination. 

Miss  Julia  Atwater  of  this  City  wrote  a 
letter  to  the  family  stating  while  visiting 
in  the  SOuth  she  has  made  an  engagement 
to  be  married  to  MR.  Crum  of  that  City. 
The  family  do  not  know  who  this  MR.  Crum 
is  but  It  is  said  he  is  a  widower  though 
he  has  been  diVorced  with  a  great  many 
children. 

The  new  ditch  of  the  MR.  Henry  D.  Vance, 
backyard  of  this  City  is  about  through 
now  as  little  remain  to  be  done  and  it  is 
thought  the  beighborhood  will  son  look 
better.     Subscribe  NOW  25c.  Per  Year  Adv. 
45c.  up.  Atwater  &  Co.     Newspaper  Building 
25  Cents  Per  Years. 

It  may  be  assumed  that  the  last  of  the  news  items 
was  wasted  upon  Noble  Dill  and  that  he  never  knew 
of  the  neighbourhood  improvement  believed  to  be 
imminent  as  a  result  of  the  final  touches  to  the 
ditch  of  the  Mr.  Henry  D.  Vance  backyard. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

THROUGHOUT  that  afternoon  adult  mem 
bers  of  the  Atwater  family  connection  made 
futile  efforts  to  secure  all  the  copies  of  the 
week's   edition  of   The    North    End    Daily    Oriole. 
It  could  not  be  done. 

It  was  a  trying  time  for  "the  family."  Great- 
Aunt  Carrie  said  that  she  had  the  "  worst  afternoon  of 
any  of  'em,"  because  young  Newland  Sanders  came 
to  her  house  at  two  and  did  not  leave  until  five;  all 
the  time  counting  over,  one  by  one,  the  hours  he'd 
spent  with  Julia  since  she  was  seventeen  and  turned 
out,  unfortunately,  to  be  a  Beauty.  Newland  had 
not  restrained  himself,  Aunt  Carrie  said,  and  long 
before  he  left  she  wished  Julia  had  never  been  born 
— and  as  for  Herbert  Illingsworth  Atwater,  Junior, 
the  only  thing  to  do  with  him  was  to  send  him  to  some 
strict  Military  School. 

Florence's  father  telephoned  to  her  mother  from 
downtown  at  three,  and  said  that  Mr.  George  Plum 
and  the  ardent  vocalist,  Clairdyce,  had  just  left  his 

324 


GENTLE  JULIA  325 

office.  They  had  not  called  in  company,  however, 
but  coinciden tally;  and  each  had  a  copy  of  The 
North  End  Daily  Oriole,  already  somewhat  worn 
with  folding  and  unfolding.  Mr.  Clairdyce's  con 
dition  was  one  of  desperate  calm,  Florence's  father 
said,  but  Mr.  Plum's  agitation  left  him  rather  un 
presentable  for  the  street,  though  he  had  finally 
gone  forth  with  his  hair  just  as  he  had  rumpled  it, 
and  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  They  wished  the 
truth,  they  said:  Was  it  true  or  was  it  not  true? 
Mr.  At  water  had  told  them  that  he  feared  Julia  was 
indeed  engaged,  though  he  knew  nothing  of  her 
fiance's  previous  marriage  or  marriages,  or  of  the 
number  of  his  children.  They  had  responded  that 
they  cared  nothing  about  that.  This  man  Crum's 
record  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  them,  they 
said.  All  they  wanted  to  know  was  whether  Julia 
was  engaged  or  not — and  she  was! 

"The  odd  thing  to  me,"  Mr.  At  water  continued 
to  his  wife,  "is  where  on  earth  Herbert  could  have 
got  his  story  about  this  Crum's  being  a  widower,  and 
divorced,  and  with  all  those  children.  Do  you  know 
if  Julia's  written  any  of  the  family  about  these 
things  and  they  haven't  told  the  rest  of  us?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater.     "I'm  sure  she  hasn't, 


326  GENTLE  JULIA 

Every  letter  she's  written  to  any  of  us  has  passed  all 
through  the  family,  and  I  know  I've  seen  every  one 
of  'em.  She's  never  said  anything  about  him  at  all, 
except  that  he  was  a  lawyer.  I'm  sure  7  can't 
imagine  where  Herbert  got  his  awful  information; 
I  never  thought  he  was  the  kind  of  boy  to  just  make 
up  such  things  out  of  whole  cloth." 

Florence,  sitting  quietly  in  a  chair  near  by,  with 
a  copy  of  "Sesame  and  Lilies"  in  her  lap,  listened  to 
her  mother's  side  of  this  conversation  with  an  ex 
pression  of  impersonal  interest;  and  if  she  could  have 
realized  how  completely  her  parents  had  forgotten 
(naturally  enough)  the  details  of  their  first  rambling 
discussion  of  Julia's  engagement,  she  might  really 
have  felt  as  little  alarm  as  she  showed. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Atwater,  "I'm  glad  our  branch 
of  the  family  isn't  responsible.  That's  a  comfort, 
anyhow,  especially  as  people  are  reading  copies  of 
Herbert's  dreadful  paper  all  up  and  down  the  town, 
my  clerk  says.  He  tells  me  that  over  at  the  Unity 
Trust  Company,  where  young  Murdock  Hawes  is 
cashier,  they  only  got  hold  of  one  copy,  but  type 
wrote  it  and  multigraphed  it,  and  some  of  'em  have 
already  learned  it  by  heart  to  recite  to  poor  young 
Hawes.  He's  the  one  who  sent  Julia  the  three  five- 


GENTLE  JULIA  327 

pound  boxes  of  chocolates  from  New  York  all  at  the 
same  time,  you  remember." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Atwater  sighed.     "Poor  thing!" 

"Florence  is  out  among  the  family,  I  suppose?" 
he  inquired, 

"No;  she's  right  here.  She's  just  started  to  read 
Ruskin  this  afternoon.  She  says  she's  going  to  begin 
and  read  all  of  him  straight  through.  That's  very 
nice,  don't  you  think?" 

He  seemed  to  muse  before  replying. 

"I  think  that's  very  nice,  at  her  age  especially," 
Mrs.  Atwater  urged.  "Don't  you?" 

"Ye-es!  Oh,  yes!  At  least  I  suppose  so.  Ah 
— you  don't  think — of  course  she  hasn't  had  any 
thing  at  all  to  do  with  this?" 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  she  could.  You  know 
Aunt  Fanny  told  us  how  Herbert  declared  before 
them  all,  only  last  Sunday  night,  that  Florence  should 
never  have  one  thing  to  do  with  his  printing-press, 
and  said  they  wouldn't  even  let  her  come  near  it." 

"Yes,  that's  a  fact.  I'm  glad  Herbert  made  it 
so  clear  that  she  can't  be  implicated.  I  suppose 
the  family  are  all  pretty  well  down  on  Uncle  Joseph?" 

"Uncle  Joseph  is  being  greatly  blamed,"  said 
Mrs.  Atwater  primly.  "He  really  ought  to  have 


328  GENTLE  JULIA 

known  better  than  to  put  such  an  instrument  as 
a  printing-press  into  the  hands  of  an  irresponsible 
boy  of  that  age.  Of  course  it  simply  encouraged  him 
to  print  all  kinds  of  things.  We  none  of  us  think 
Uncle  Joseph  ever  dreamed  that  Herbert  would 
publish  anything  exactly  like  this,  and  of  course 
Uncle  Joseph  says  himself  he  never  dreamed  such  a 
thing;  he's  said  so  time  and  time  and  time  again,  all 
afternoon.  But  of  course  he's  greatly  blamed." 

"I  suppose  there've  been  quite  a  good  many  of 
'em  over  there  blaming  him?"  her  husband  in 
quired. 

"Yes — until  he  telephoned  to  a  garage  and  hired 
a  car  and  went  for  a  drive.  He  said  he  had  plenty  of 
money  with  him  and  didn't  know  when  he'd  be 
back." 

"Serves  him  right,"  said  Mr.  Atwater.  "Does 
anybody  know  where  Herbert  is?" 

"Not  yet!" 

"Well "  and  he  returned  to  a  former  theme. 

"I  am  glad  we  aren't  implicated.  Florence  is  right 
there  with  you,  you  say?" 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Atwater  replied.  "She's  right  here, 
reading.  You  aren't  worried  about  her,  are  you?" 
she  added. 


GENTLE  JULIA  329 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  sure  it's  all  right.  I  only 
thought " 

"Only  thought  what?" 

"Well,  it  did  strike  me  as  curious,"  said  Mr. 
Atwater;  "especially  after  Aunt  Fanny's  telling  us 
how  Herbert  declared  Florence  could  never  have  a 
single  thing  to  do  with  his  paper  again " 

"Well,  what?" 

"Well,  here's  her  poem  right  at  the  top  of  it,  and 
a  very  friendly  item  about  her  history  mark  of  last 
June.  It  doesn't  seem  like  Herbert  to  be  so  com 
plimentary  to  Florence,  all  of  a  sudden.  Just 
struck  me  as  rather  curious;  that's  all." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater,  "it  does  seem  a 
little  odd,  when  you  think  of  it." 

"Have  you  asked  Florence  if  she  had  any  thing  to 
do  with  getting  out  this  week's  Oriole?" 

"Why,  no;  it  never  occurred  to  me,  especially 
after  what  Aunt  Fanny  told  us,"  said  Mrs.  Atwater 
"I'll  ask  her  now." 

But  she  was  obliged  to  postpone  putting  the  in 
tended  question.  "Sesame  and  Lilies"  lay  sweetly 
upon  the  seat  of  the  chair  that  Florence  had  occupied; 
but  Florence  herself  had  gone  somewhere  else. 

She  had  gone  for  a  long,  long  ramble;  and  pedes- 


330  GENTLE  JULIA 

trians  who  encountered  her,  and  happened  to  notice 
her  expression,  were  interested;  and  as  they  went 
on  their  way  several  of  them  interrupted  the  course 
of  their  meditations  to  say  to  themselves  that  she 
was  the  most  thoughtful  looking  young  girl  they 
had  ever  seen.  There  was  a  touch  of  wistfulness 
about  her,  too;  as  of  one  whose  benevolence  must 
renounce  all  hope  of  comprehension  and  reward. 

Now,  among  those  who  observed  her  unusual 
expression  was  a  gentleman  of  great  dimensions  dis 
posed  in  a  closed  automobile  that  went  labouring 
among  mudholes  in  an  unpaved  outskirt  of  the  town. 
He  rapped  upon  the  glass  before  him,  to  get  the 
driver's  attention,  and  a  moment  later  the  car  drew 
up  beside  Florence,  as  she  stood  in  a  deep  reverie 
at  the  intersection  of  two  roads. 

Uncle  Joseph  opened  the  door  and  took  his  cigar 
from  his  mouth.  " Get  in,  Florence,"  he  said.  "I'll 
take  you  for  a  ride."  She  started  violently;  where 
upon  he  restored  the  cigar  to  his  mouth,  puffed  upon 
it,  breathing  heavily  the  while  as  was  his  wont, 
and  added,  "I'm  not  going  home.  I'm  out  for  a 
nice  long  ride.  Get  in." 

"I  was  takin'  a  walk,"  she  said  dubiously.  "I  haf 
to  take  a  whole  lot  of  exercise,  and  I  ought  to  walk 


GENTLE  JULIA  331 

and  walk  and  walk.  I  guess  I  ought  to  keep  on 
walkin'." 

"Get  in,"  he  said.  "I'm  out  riding.  I  don't 
know  when  I'll  get  home!" 

Florence  stepped  in,  Uncle  Joseph  closed  the  door, 
and  the  car  slowly  bumped  onward. 

"You  know  where  Herbert  is?"  Uncle  Joseph 
inquired. 

"No,"  said  Florence,  in  a  gentle  voice. 

"I  do,"  he  said.  "Herbert  and  your  friend 
Henry  Rooter  came  to  our  house  with  one  of  the  last 
copies  of  the  Oriole  they  were  distributing  to  sub 
scribers;  and  after  I  read  it  I  kind  of  foresaw  that 
the  feller  responsible  for  their  owning  a  printing- 
press  was  going  to  be  in  some  sort  of  family  trouble 
or  other.  I  had  quite  a  talk  with  'em  and  they 
hinted  they  hadn't  had  much  to  do  with  this  number 
of  the  paper,  except  the  mechanical  end  of  it;  but  they 
wouldn't  come  out  right  full  with  what  they  meant* 
They  seemed  to  have  some  good  reason  for  pro 
tecting  a  third  party,  and  said  quite  a  good  deal 
about  their  fathers  and  mothers  being  but  mortal 
and  so  on;  so  Henry  and  Herbert  thought  they 
oughtn't  to  expose  this  third  party — whoever  she  may 
happen  to  be.  Well,  I  thought  they  better  not  stay 


332  GENTLE  JULIA 

too  long,  because  I  was  compromised  enough  already, 
without  being  seen  in  their  company;  and  I  gave 
'em  something  to  help  'em  out  with  at  the  movies. 
You  can  stay  at  movies  an  awful  long  time,  and  if 
you've  got  money  enough  to  go  to  several  of  'em, 
why,  you're  fixed  for  pretty  near  as  long  as  you  please. 
A  body  ought  to  be  able  to  live  a  couple  o'  months 
at  the  movies  for  nine  or  ten  dollars,  I  should  think." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  then  asked,  "I  don't 
suppose  your  papa  and  mamma  will  be  worrying 
about  you,  will  they,  Florence?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  quickly.  "Not  in  the  least! 
There  was  nothin'  at  all  for  me  to  do  at  our  house 
this  afternoon." 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  "because  before  we  go 
back  I  was  thinking  some  of  driving  around  by  way 
of  Texas." 

Florence  looked  at  him  trustfully  and  said  nothing. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  he  suspected  something;  she 
was  not  sure;  but  his  conversation  was  a  little  pecu 
liar,  though  not  in  the  least  sinister.  Indeed  she  was 
able  to  make  out  that  he  had  more  the  air  of  an  ac 
complice  than  of  a  prosecutor  or  a  detective.  Never 
theless,  she  was  convinced  that  far,  far  the  best  course 
for  her  to  pursue,  during  the  next  few  days,  would 


GENTLE  JULIA  333 

be  one  of  steadfast  reserve.  And  such  a  course 
was  congenial  to  her  mood,  which  was  subdued,  not 
to  say  apprehensive;  though  she  was  sure  her  recent 
conduct,  if  viewed  sympathetically,  would  be  found 
at  least  Christian.  The  trouble  was  that  probably  it 
would  not  be  viewed  sympathetically.  No  one  would 
understand  how  carefully  and  tactfully  she  had 
prepared  the  items  of  the  Oriole  to  lead  suavely 
up  to  the  news  of  Aunt  Julia's  engagement  and 
break  it  to  Noble  Dill  in  a  manner  that  would  save 
his  reason. 

Therefore,  on  account  of  this  probable  lack  of 
comprehension  on  the  part  of  the  family  and  public, 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  only  wise  and  good  course 
to  follow  would  be  to  claim  nothing  for  herself,  but  to 
allow  Herbert  and  Henry  to  remain  undisturbed 
in  full  credit  for  publishing  the  Oriole.  This  in 
volved  a  disappointment,  it  is  true;  nevertheless,  she 
decided  to  bear  it. 

She  had  looked  forward  to  surprising  "the  family" 
delightfully.  As  they  fluttered  in  exclamation  about 
her,  she  had  expected  to  say,  "Oh,  the  poem  isn't  so 
much,  I  guess — I  wrote  it  quite  a  few  days  ago  and 
I'm  writing  a  couple  new  ones  now — but  I  did 
take  quite  a  lot  o'  time  and  trouble  with  the  rest  of 


334  GENTLE  JULIA 

the  paper,  because  I  had  to  write  every  single  word 
of  it,  or  else  let  Henry  and  Herbert  try  to,  and  'course 
they'd  just  of  ruined  it.  Oh,  it  isn't  so  much  to 
talk  about,  I  guess;  it  just  sort  of  comes  to  me  to  do 
things  that  way." 

Thirteen  attempts  to  exercise  a  great  philanthropy, 
and  every  grown  person  in  sight,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  Great-Uncle  Joseph,  goes  into  wholly 
unanticipated  fits  of  horror.  Cause  and  effect 
have  no  honest  relation :  Fate  operates  without  justice 
or  even  rational  sequence;  life  and  the  universe 
appear  to  be  governed,  not  in  order  and  with  system, 
but  by  Chance,  becoming  sinister  at  any  moment 
without  reason. 

And  while  Florence,  thus  a  pessimist,  sat  beside 
fat  Uncle  Joseph  during  their  long,  long  drive,  rela 
tives  of  hers  were  indeed  going  into  fits;  at  least,  so 
Florence  would  have  described  their  gestures  and  in 
coherences  of  comment.  Moreover,  after  the  movies, 
straight  into  such  a  fitful  scene  did  the  luckless  Her 
bert  wane  when  urged  homeward  by  thoughts  of 
food,  at  about  six  that  evening.  Henry  Rooter  had 
strongly  advised  him  against  entering  the  house. 

"You  better  not,"  he  said  earnestly.  "Honest, 
you  better  not,  Herbert ! " 


GENTLE  JULIA  335 

"Well,  we  got  apple  dumplings  for  dinner,"  Her 
bert  said,  his  tone  showing  the  strain  of  mental 
uncertainty.  "Eliza  told  me  this  morning  we  were 
goin'  to  have  'em.  I  kind  of  hate  to  go  in,  but  I 
guess  I  better,  Henry." 

"You  won't  see  any  apple  dumplings,"  Henry 
predicted. 

"Well,  I  believe  I  better  try  it,  Henry." 

"You  better  come  home  with  me.  My  father  and 
mother'll  be  perfectly  willing  to  have  you." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Herbert.  "But  I  guess  I 
better  go  in  and  try  it,  anyhow,  Henry.  I  didn't 
have  anything  to  do  with  what's  in  the  Oriole. 
It's  every  last  word  ole  Florence's  doing.  I  haven't 
got  any  more  right  to  be  picked  on  for  that  than  a 
child." 

"Yes,"  Henry  admitted.  "But  if  you  go  and  tell 
'em  so,  I  bet  she'd  get  even  with  you  some  way  that 
would  probably  get  me  in  trouble,  too,  before  we  get 
through  with  the  job.  I  wouldn't  tell  'em  if  I  was 
you,  Herbert!" 

"Well,  I  wasn't  intending  to,"  Herbert  responded 
gloomily;  and  the  thought  of  each,  unknown  to  the 
other,  was  the  same,  consisting  of  a  symbolic  like 
ness  of  Wallie  Torbin  at  his  worst.  "I  ought  to  tell 


336  GENTLE  JULIA 

on  Florence;  by  rights  I  ought,"  said  Herbert;  "but 
I've  decided  I  won't.  There's  no  tellin'  what  she 
wouldn't  do.  Not  that  she  could  do  anything  to 
me,  particyourly " 

"Nor  me,  either,"  his  friend  interposed  hurriedly. 
"I  don't  worry  about  anything  like  that!    Still,  if  I 
was  you  I  wouldn't  tell.     She's  only  a  girl,  we  got  to 
remember." 

"Yes,"  said  Herbert.  "That's  the  way  I  look  at 
it,  Henry;  and  the  way  I  look  at  it  is  just  simply  this: 
long  as  she  is  a  girl,  why,  simply  let  her  go.  You 
can't  tell  what  she'd  do,  and  so  what's  the  use  to  go 
and  tell  on  a  girl?" 

"That's  the  way  7  look  at  it,"  Henry  agreed. 
"What's  the  use?  If  I  was  in  your  place,  I'd  act  just 
the  same  way  you  do." 

"Well,"  said  Herbert,  "I  guess  I  better  go  on  in 
the  house,  Henry.  It's  a  good  while  after  dark." 

"You're  makin'  a  big  mistake!"  Henry  Rooter 
called  after  him.  "  You  won't  see  any  apple  dump 
lings,  I  bet  a  hunderd  dollars!  You  better  come  on 
home  with  me." 

Herbert  no  more  than  half  opened  his  front 
door  before  he  perceived  that  his  friend's  advice  had 
been  excellent.  So  clearly  Herbert  perceived  this, 


GENTLE  JULIA  337'. 

that  he  impulsively  decided  not  to  open  the  door  any 
farther,  but  on  the  contrary  to  close  it  and  retire; 
and  he  would  have  done  so,  had  his  mother  not 
reached  forth  and  detained  him.  She  was,  in  fact, 
just  inside  that  door,  standing  in  the  hall  with  one 
of  his  great-aunts,  one  of  his  aunts,  two  aunts-by- 
marriage,  and  an  elderly  unmarried  cousin,  who  were 
all  just  on  the  point  of  leaving.  However,  they 
changed  their  minds  and  decided  to  remain,  now 
that  Herbert  was  among  them. 

The  captive's  father  joined  them,  a  few  minutes 
later,  but  it  had  already  become  clear  to  Herbert 
that  The  North  End  Daily  Oriole  was  in  one  sense  a 
thing  of  the  past,  though  in  another  sense  this  former 
owner  and  proprietor  was  certain  that  he  would 
never  hear  the  last  of  it.  However,  on  account  of 
the  life  of  blackmail  and  slavery  now  led  by  the 
members  of  the  old  regime,  the  Oriole's  extinction 
was  far  less  painful  to  Herbert  than  his  father  sup 
posed;  and  the  latter  wasted  a  great  deal  of  severity, 
insisting  that  the  printing-press  should  be  returned 
that  very  night  to  Uncle  Joseph.  Herbert's  heartiest 
retrospective  wish  was  that  the  ole  printing-press  had 
been  returned  to  Uncle  Joseph  long  ago. 

"If  you  can  find  him  to  give  it  to!"  Aunt  Harriet 


338  GENTLE  JULIA 

suggested.  "Nobody  knows  where  he  'goes  when  he 
gets  the  way  he  did  this  afternoon  when  we  were  dis 
cussing  it  with  him !  I  only  hope  he'll  be  back  to 
night!" 

"He  can't  stay  away  forever,"  Aunt  Fanny  re 
marked.  "That  garage  is  charging  him  five  dollars 
an  hour  for  the  automobile  he's  in,  and  surely  even 
Joseph  will  decide  there's  a  limit  to  wildness  some 
time!" 

"I  don't  care  when  he  comes  back,"  Herbert's 
father  declared  grimly.  "  Whenever  he  does  he's  got 
to  take  that  printing-press  back — and  Herbert  will 
be  let  out  of  the  house  long  enough  to  carry  it  over. 
His  mother  or  I  will  go  with  him." 

Herbert  bore  much  more  than  this.  He  had 
seated  himself  on  the  third  step  of  the  stairway,  and 
maintained  as  much  dogged  silence  as  he  could. 
Once,  however,  they  got  a  yelp  of  anguish  out  of  him. 
It  was  when  Cousin  Virginia  said:  "Oh,  Herbert, 
Herbert!  How  could  you  make  up  that  terrible 
falsehood  about  Mr.  Crum?  And,  think  of  it;  right 
on  the  same  page  with  your  cousin  Florence's  pure 
little  poem!" 

Herbert  uttered  sounds  incoherent  but  loud,  and 
expressive  of  a  supreme  physical  revulsion.  The 


GENTLE  JULIA  339 

shocked  audience  readily  understood  that  he  liked 
neither  Cousin  Virginia's  chiding  nor  Cousin  Flor 
ence's  pure  little  poem. 

"Shame!"  said  his  father. 

Herbert  controlled  himself.  It  could  be  seen  that 
his  spirit  was  broken,  when  Aunt  Fanny  mourned, 
shaking  her  head  at  him,  smiling  ruefully: 

"Oh,  if  boys  could  only  be  girls!" 

Herbert  just  looked  at  her. 

"The  worst  thing,"  said  his  father;— "that  is,  if 
there's  any  part  of  it  that's  worse  than  another — the 
worst  thing  about  it  all  is  this  rumour  about  Noble 
Dill." 

"What  about  that  poor  thing?"  Aunt  Harriet 
asked.  "We  haven't  heard." 

"Why,  I  walked  up  from  downtown  with  old  man 
Dill,"  said  Mr.  Atwater,  "and  the  Dill  family  are  all 
very  much  worried.  It  seems  that  Noble  started 
downtown  after  lunch,  as  usual,  and  pretty  soon 
he  came  back  to  the  house  and  he  had  a  copy  of  this 
awful  paper  that  little  Florence  had  given  him, 
and " 

"Who  gave  it  to  him?"  Aunt  Fanny  asked. 
"Who?" 

"Little  Florence." 


340  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Why,  that's  curious,"  Cousin  Virginia  mur 
mured.  "I  must  telephone  and  ask  her  mother 
about  that." 

The  brooding  Herbert  looked  up,  and  there  was  a 
gleam  in  his  dogged  eye;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"Go  on,"  Aunt  Harriet  urged.  "What  did  Noble 
do?" 

"  Why,  his  mother  said  he  just  went  up  to  his  room 
and  changed  his  shoes  and  necktie " 

"  I  thought  so,"  Aunt  Fanny  whispered.   "  Crazy ! " 

"And  then,"  Mr.  Atwater  continued,  "he  left 
the  house  and  she  supposed  he'd  gone  down  to  the 
office;  but  she  was  uneasy,  and  telephoned  his  father. 
Noble  hadn't  come.  He  didn't  come  all  afternoon, 
and  he  didn't  go  back  to  the  house;  and  they  tele 
phoned  around  to  every  place  he  could  go  that  they 
know  of,  and  they  couldn't  find  him  or  hear  any 
thing  about  him  at  all — not  anywhere."  Mr.  At 
water  coughed,  and  paused. 

"But  what,"  Aunt  Harriet  cried; — "what  do  they 
think's  become  of  him?" 

"Old  man  Dill  said  they  were  all  pretty  anxious," 
said  Mr.  Atwater.  "They're  afraid  Noble  has — 
they're  afraid  he's  disappeared." 

Aunt  Fanny  screamed. 


GENTLE  JULIA  341 

Then,  in  perfect  accord,  they  all  turned  to  look  at 
Herbert,  who  rose  and  would  have  retired  up 
stairs  had  he  been  permitted. 

As  that  perturbing  evening  wore  on,  word  grad 
ually  reached  the  most  outlying  members  of  the 
Atwater  family  connection  that  Noble  Dill  was  miss 
ing.  Ordinarily,  this  bit  of  news  would  have  caused 
them  no  severe  anxiety.  Noble's  person  and  in 
tellect  were  so  commonplace — "insignificant"  was 
the  term  usually  preferred  in  his  own  circle — that 
he  was  considered  to  be  as  nearly  negligible  as  it  is 
charitable  to  consider  a  fellow-being.  True,  there 
was  one  thing  that  set  him  apart;  he  was  found 
worthy  of  a  superlative  when  he  fell  in  love  with 
Julia;  and  of  course  this  distinction  caused  him  to 
become  better  known  and  more  talked  about  than 
he  had  been  in  his  earlier  youth. 

However,  the  eccentricities  of  a  person  in  such  an 
extremity  of  love  are  seldom  valued  except  as  comedy, 
and  even  then  with  no  warmth  of  heart  for  the 
comedian,  but  rather  with  an  incredulous  disdain; 
so  it  is  safe  to  say  that  under  other  circumstances, 
Noble  might  have  been  missing,  indeed,  and  few 
of  the  Atwaters  would  have  missed  him.  But  as 
matters  stood  they  worried  a  great  deal  about  him, 


342  GENTLE  JULIA 

fearing  that  a  rash  act  on  his  part  might  reflect 
notoriety  upon  themselves  on  account  of  their  beau 
tiful  relative — and  The  North  End  Daily  Oriole. 
And  when  nine  o'clock  came  and  Mrs.  Dill  reported 
to  Herbert's  father,  over  the  telephone,  that  nothing 
had  yet  been  heard  of  her  son,  the  pressure  of  those 
who  were  blaming  the  Oriole  more  than  they 
blamed  Julia  became  so  wearing  that  Herbert  decided 
he  would  rather  spend  the  remaining  days  of  his  life 
running  away  from  Wallie  Torbin  than  put  in  any 
more  of  such  a  dog's  evening  as  he  was  putting  in. 
Thus  he  defined  it. 

He  made  a  confession;  that  is  to  say,  it  was  a 
proclamation.  He  proclaimed  his  innocence.  He 
began  history  with  a  description  of  events  distinctly 
subsequent  to  Sunday  pastimes  with  Patty  Fair- 
child,  and  explained  how  he  and  Henry  had  felt  that 
their  parents  would  not  always  be  with  them,  and  as 
their  parents  wished  them  to  be  polite,  they  had 
resolved  to  be  polite  to  Florence.  Proceeding,  he 
related  in  detail  her  whole  journalistic  exploit. 

Of  the  matter  in  hand  he  told  the  perfect  and  ab 
solute  truth — and  was  immediately  refuted,  confuted, 
and  demonstrated  to  be  a  false  witness  by  Aunt 
Fanny,  Aunt  Carrie,  and  Cousin  Virginia,  who  had 


GENTLE  JULIA  343 

all  heard  him  vehemently  declare,  no  longer  ago 
than  the  preceding  Sunday  evening,  that  he  and  his 
partner  had  taken  secure  measures  to  prevent 
Florence  from  ever  again  setting  foot  within  the 
Newspaper  Building.  In  addition,  he  was  quite 
showered  with  definitions;  and  these,  though  so 
various,  all  sought  to  phrase  but  the  one  subject: 
his  conduct  in  seeking  to  drag  Florence  into  the  mire, 
when  she  was  absent  and  could  not  defend  herself. 
Poor  Florence  would  answer  later  in  the  evening,  he 
was  told  severely;  and  though  her  cause  was  thus 
championed  against  the  slander,  it  is  true  that  some 
of  her  defenders  felt  stirrings  of  curiosity  in  regard 
to  Florence.  In  fact,  there  was  getting  to  be  some 
thing  almost  like  a  cloud  upon  her  reputation. 
There  were  several  things  for  her  to  explain; — 
among  them,  her  taking  it  upon  herself  to  see  that 
Noble  received  a  copy  of  the  Oriole,  and  also  her 
sudden  departure  from  home  and  rather  odd  protrac 
tion  of  absence  therefrom.  It  was  not  thought 
she  was  in  good  company.  Uncle  Joseph  had  tele 
phoned  from  a  suburb  that  they  were  dining  at  a 
farmhouse  and  would  thence  descend  to  the  general 
region  of  the  movies. 

"Nobody  knows  what  that  man'll  do,  when  he 


344  GENTLE  JULIA 

decides  to!"  Aunt  Carrie  said  nervously.  "Letting 
the  poor  child  stay  up  so  late!  She  ought  to  be  in 
bed  this  minute,  even  if  it  is  Saturday  night!  Or 
else  she  ought  to  be  here  to  listen  to  her  own  bad 
little  cousin  trying  to  put  his  terrible  responsibility 
on  her  shoulders." 

One  item  of  this  description  of  himself  the  badgered 
Herbert  could  not  bear  in  silence,  although  he  had 
just  declared  that  since  the  truth  was  so  ill-respected 
among  his  persecutors  he  would  open  his  mouth  no 
more  until  the  day  of  his  death.  He  passed  over 
"bad,"  but  furiously  stated  his  height  in  feet,  inches, 
and  fractions  of  inches. 

Aunt  Fanny  shook  her  head  in  mourning.  "  That 
may  be,  Herbert,"  she  said  gently.  "But  you  must 
try  to  realize  it  can't  bring  poor  young  Mr.  Dill  back 
to  his  family." 

Again  Herbert  just  looked  at  her.  He  had  no 
indifference  more  profound  than  that  upon  which 
her  strained  conception  of  the  relation  between 
cause  and  effect  seemed  to  touch; — from  his  point  of 
view,  to  be  missing  should  be  the  lightest  of  calami 
ties.  It  is  true  that  he  was  concerned  with  the  res 
toration  of  Noble  Dill  to  the  rest  of  the  Dills  so 
far  as  such  an  event  might  affect  his  own  incompara- 


GENTLE  JULIA  345 

ble  misfortunes,  but  not  otherwise.  He  regarded 
Noble  and  Noble's  disappearance  merely  as  unfair 
damage  to  himself,  and  he  continued  to  look  at 
this  sorrowing  great-aunt  of  his  until  his  thoughts 
made  his  strange  gaze  appear  to  her  so  hardened 
that  she  shook  her  head  and  looked  away. 

"Poor  young  Mr.  Dill!"  she  said.  "If  someone 
could  only  have  been  with  him  and  kept  talking  to 
him  until  he  got  used  to  the  idea  a  little!" 

Cousin  Virginia  nodded  comprehendingly.  "Yes, 
it  might  have  tided  him  over,"  she  said.  "He 
wasn't  handsome,  nor  impressive,  of  course,  nor 
anything  like  that,  but  he  always  spoke  so  nicely 
to  people  on  the  street.  I'm  sure  he  never  harmed 
even  a  kitten,  poor  soul!" 

"I'm  sure  he  never  did,"  Herbert's  mother  agreed 
gently.  "Not  even  a  kitten.  I  do  wonder  where  he 


is  now." 


But  Aunt  Fanny  uttered  a  little  cry  of  protest. 
"I'm  afraid  we  may  hear!"  she  said.  "Any  mo 
ment!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

f"  •  "\HESE  sympathetic  women  had  unanimously 
|  set  their  expectation  in  so  romantically  pessi- 
-*"  mistic  a  groove  that  the  most  tragic  news  of 
Noble  would  have  surprised  them  little.  But  if 
the  truth  of  his  whereabouts  could  have  been  made 
known  to  them,  as  they  sat  thus  together  at  what 
was  developing  virtually  into  his  wake,  with  Herbert 
as  a  compulsory  participant,  they  would  have  turned 
the  session  into  a  riot  of  amazement.  Noble  was 
in  the  very  last  place  (they  would  have  said,  when 
calmer)  where  anybody  in  the  world  could  have 
even  madly  dreamed  of  looking  for  him!  They 
would  have  been  right  about  it.  No  one  could  have 
expected  to  find  Noble  to-night  inside  the  old, 
four-square  brick  house  of  H.  I.  Atwater,  Senior, 
chief  of  the  Atwaters  and  father  of  too  gentle  Julia. 
Moreover,  Mr.  Atwater  himself  was  not  at  present 
in  the  house;  he  had  closed  and  locked  it  the  day  be 
fore,  giving  the  servants  a  week's  vacation  and  telling 
them  not  to  return  till  he  sent  for  them;  and  he  had 

346 


GENTLE  JULIA  347 

then  gone  out  of  town  to  look  over  a  hominy-mill 
he  thought  of  buying.  And  yet,  as  the  wake  went 
on,  there  was  a  light  in  the  house,  and  under  that 
light  sat  Noble  Dill. 

Returning  home,  after  Florence  had  placed  the  shat 
tering  paper  within  his  hand,  Noble  had  changed 
his  shoes  and  his  tie.  He  was  but  a  mechanism; 
he  had  no  motive.  The  shoes  he  put  on  were  no 
better  than  those  he  took  off;  the  fresh  tie  was  no 
lovelier  than  the  one  he  had  worn;  nor  had  it  even 
the  lucidity  to  be  a  purple  one,  as  the  banner  of 
grief.  No;  his  action  was,  if  so  viewed,  "crazy," 
as  Aunt  Fanny  had  called  it.  Agitation  first  took 
this  form;  that  was  all.  Love  and  change  of  dress 
are  so  closely  allied;  and  in  happier  days,  when  Noble 
had  come  home  from  work  and  would  see  Julia  in 
the  evening,  he  usually  changed  his  clothes.  No 
doubt  there  is  some  faint  tracery  here,  probably  too 
indistinct  to  repay  contemplation. 

When  he  left  the  house  he  walked  rapidly  down 
town,  and  toward  the  end  of  this  one-mile  journey 
he  ran;  but  as  he  was  then  approaching  the  railway 
station,  no  one  thought  him  eccentric.  He  was, 
however,  for  when  he  entered  the  station  he  went 
to  a  bench  and  sat  looking  upward  for  more  than 


348  GENTLE  JULIA 

ten  minutes  before  he  rose,  went  to  a  ticket  win 
dow  and  asked  for  a  time-table. 

"What  road?"  the  clerk  inquired. 

"All  points  South,"  said  Noble. 

He  placed  the  time-table,  still  folded,  in  his  pocket, 
rested  an  elbow  on  the  brass  apron  of  the  window, 
and  would  have  given  himself  up  to  reflections, 
though  urged  to  move  away.  Several  people,  wish 
ing  to  buy  tickets,  had  formed  a  line  behind  him; 
they  perceived  that  Noble  had  nothing  more  to  say 
to  the  clerk,  and  the  latter  encouraged  their  pro 
tests,  even  going  so  far  as  to  inquire:  "For  heaven's 
sakes,  can't  you  let  these  folk  buy  their  tickets?" 
And  since  Noble  still  did  not  move:  "My  gosh, 
haven't  you  got  no  feet  ?" 

"Feet?  Oh,  yes,"  said  Noble  gently.  "I'm  going 
away."  And  went  back  to  his  seat. 

Afterwhile,  he  sought  to  study  his  time-table. 
Ordinarily,  his  mind  was  one  of  those  able  to  decipher 
and  comprehend  railway  time-tables;  he  had  few 
gifts,  but  this  was  one  of  them.  It  failed  him  now; 
so  he  wandered  back  to  the  ticket-window,  and,  after 
urgent  coaching,  eventually  took  his  place  at  the  end 
instead  of  at  the  head  of  the  line  that  waited  there. 
In  his  turn  he  came  again  to  the  window,  and  de- 


GENTLE  JULIA  349 

parted  from  it  after  a  conversation  with  the  clerk 
that  left  the  latter  in  accord  with  Aunt  Fanny  At- 
water's  commiserating  adjective,  though  the  clerk's 
own  pity  was  expressed  in  argot.  "The  poor  nut!" 
he  explained  to  his  next  client.  "Wants  to  buy 
a  ticket  on  a  train  that  don't  pull  out  until  ten  thirty- 
five  to-night;  and  me  fillin'  it  all  out,  stampin'  it 
and  everything,  what  for?  Turned  out  all  his  pock 
ets  and  couldn't  come  within  eight  dollars  o'  the 
price!  Where  you  want  to  go?" 

Noble  went  back  to  his  bench  and  sat  there  for 
a  long  time,  though  there  was  no  time,  long  or  short, 
for  him.  He  was  not  yet  consciously  suffering; 
nor  was  he  thinking  at  all.  True,  he  had  a  dim, 
persistent  impulse  to  action — or  why  should  he  be 
at  the  station? — but  for  the  clearest  expression  of 
his  condition  it  is  necessary  to  borrow  a  culinary 
symbol;  he  was  jelling.  But  the  state  of  shock  was 
slowly  dispersing,  while  a  perception  of  approaching 
anguish  as  slowly  increased.  He  was  beginning  to 
swallow  nothing  at  intervals  and  the  intervals  were 
growing  shorter. 

Dusk  was  misting  down,  outdoors,  when  with 
dragging  steps  he  came  out  of  the  station.  He 
looked  hazily  up  and  down  the  street,  where  the 


350  GENTLE  JULIA 

corner-lamps  and  shop-windows  now  were  lighted; 
and,  after  dreary  hesitation,  he  went  in  search  of  a 
pawn-shop,  and  found  one.  The  old  man  who  oper 
ated  it  must  have  been  a  philanthropist,  for  Noble 
was  so  fortunate  as  to  secure  a  loan  of  nine  dollars 
upon  his  watch.  Surprised  at  this,  he  returned  to 
the  station,  and  went  back  to  the  same  old  bench. 

It  was  fully  occupied,  and  he  stood  for  some  time 
looking  with  vague  reproach  at  the  large  family  of 
coloured  people  who  had  taken  it.  He  had  a  feeling 
that  he  lived  there  and  that  these  coloured  people 
were  trespassers;  but  upon  becoming  aware  that  part 
of  an  orange  was  being  rubbed  over  his  left  shoe 
by  the  youngest  of  the  children,  he  groaned  abruptly 
and  found  another  bench. 

A  little  after  six  o'clock  a  clanging  and  commotion 
in  the  train-shed  outside,  attending  the  arrival  of  a 
"through  express,"  stirred  him  from  his  torpor, 
and  he  walked  heavily  across  the  room  to  the  same 
ticket- window  he  had  twice  blocked;  but  there  was 
no  queue  attached  to  it  now.  He  rested  his  elbow 
upon  the  apron  and  his  chin  upon  his  hand,  while 
the  clerk  waited  until  he  should  state  his  wishes. 
This  was  a  new  clerk,  who  had  just  relieved  the 
other. 


GENTLE  JULIA  351 

"  Well !    Well ! "  he  said  at  last. 

"I'll  take  it  now,"  Noble  responded/ 

"What'll  you  take  now?" 

"That  ticket." 

"What  ticket?" 

"The  same  one  I  wanted  before,"  Noble  sighed. 

The  clerk  gave  him  a  piercing  look,  glanced  out 
of  the  window  and  saw  that  there  were  no  other 
clients,  then  went  to  a  desk  at  the  farther  end  of  his 
compartment,  and  took  up  some  clerical  work  he  had 
in  hand. 

Noble  leaned  upon  the  apron  of  the  window,  wait 
ing;  and  if  he  thought  anything,  he  thought  the  man 
was  serving  him. 

The  high,  vaulted  room  became  resonant  with 
voices  and  the  blurred  echoes  of  mingling  footsteps 
on  the  marble  floor,  as  passengers  from  the  express 
hurried  anxiously  to  the  street,  or  more  gaily  strag 
gled  through,  shouting  with  friends  who  came  to 
greet  them;  and  among  these  moving  groups  there 
walked  a  youthful  fine  lady  noticeably  enlivening  to 
the  dullest  eye.  She  was  preceded  by  a  brisk  porter 
who  carried  two  travelling-bags  of  a  rich  sort,  as  well 
as  a  sack  of  implements  for  the  game  of  golf;  and  she 
was  warm  in  dark  furs,  against  which  the  vasty 


352  GENTLE  JULIA 

clump  of  violets  she  wore  showed  dewy  gleamings 
of  blue. 

At  sight  of  Noble  Dill,  more  than  pensive  at  the 
ticket- window,  she  hesitated,  then  stopped  and  ob 
served  him.  That  she  should  observe  anybody  was 
in  a  way  a  coincidence,  for,  as  it  happened,  she  was 
herself  the  most  observed  person  in  all  the  place. 
She  was  veiled  in  two  veils,  but  she  had  been  seen 
in  the  train  without  these,  and  some  of  her  fellow- 
travellers,  though  strangers  to  her,  were  walking  near 
her  in  a  hypocritical  way,  hoping  still  not  to  lose 
sight  of  her,  even  veiled.  And  although  the  shroud 
ings  permitted  the  most  meagre  information  of  her 
features,  what  they  did  reveal  was  harmfully  pi 
quant;  moreover,  there  was  a  sweetness  of  figure,  a 
disturbing  grace;  while  nothing  could  disguise  her 
air  of  wearing  that  many  violets  casually  as  a  daily 
perquisite  and  matter  of  course. 

So  this  observed  lady  stopped  and  observed  Noble, 
who  in  return  observed  her  not  at  all,  being  but 
semi-conscious.  Looked  upon  thoughtfully,  it  is  a 
coincidence  that  we  breathe;  certainly  it  is  a  mighty 
coincidence  that  we  speak  to  one  another  and  com 
prehend;  for  these  are  true  marvels.  But  what  petty 
interfacings  of  human  action  so  pique  our  sense  of 


GENTLE  JULIA  353 

the  theatrical  that  we  call  them  coincidences  and 
are  astonished!  That  Julia  should  arrive  during 
Noble's  long  process  of  buying  a  ticket  to  go  to  her 
was  stranger  than  that  she  stopped  to  look  at  him, 
though  still  not  comparable  in  strangeness  to  the 
fact  that  either  of  them,  or  any  living  creature, 
stood  upon  the  whirling  earth; — yet  when  Noble 
Dill  comprehended  what  was  happening  he  was 
amazed. 

She  spoke  to  him. 

"Noble!"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  her.  His  elbow  sagged  away  from 
the  window;  the  whole  person  of  Noble  Dill  seemed 
near  collapse.  He  shook;  he  had  no  voice. 

"I  just  this  minute  got  off  the  train,"  she  said. 
"Are  you  going  away  somewhere?" 

"No,"  he  whispered;  then  obtained  command  of 
a  huskiness  somewhat  greater  in  volume.  "I'm 
just  standing  here." 

"I  told  the  porter  to  get  me  a  taxicab,"  she  said. 
"If  you're  going  home  for  dinner  I'll  drop  you  at  your 
house." 

"I — I'm — I "     His   articulation   encountered 

unsurmountable  difficulties,  but  Julia  had  been  with 
him  through  many  such  trials  aforetime.    She  said 


354  GENTLE  JULIA 

briskly,  "I'm  awfully  hungry  and  I  want  to  get 
home.  Come  on — if  you  like?" 

He  walked  waveringly  at  her  side  through  the 
station,  and  followed  her  into  the  dim  interior  of  the 
cab,  which  became  fragrant  of  violets — an  emanation 
at  once  ineffable  and  poisonous. 

"I'm  so  glad  I  happened  to  run  across  you," 
she  said,  as  they  began  to  vibrate  tremulously  in 
unison  with  the  fierce  little  engine  that  drew  them. 
"I  want  to  hear  all  the  news.  Nobody  knows  I'm 
home.  I  didn't  write  or  telegraph  to  a  soul;  and 
I'll  be  a  complete  surprise  to  father  and  every 
body — I  don't  know  how  pleasant  a  one!  You 
didn't  seem  so  frightfully  glad  to  see  me,  Noble!" 

"Am  I?"  he  whispered.  "I  mean — I  mean — I 
mean:  Didn't  I?" 

"No!"  she  laughed.  "You  looked — you  looked 
shocked!  It  couldn't  have  been  because  I'm  ill 
or  anything,  because  I'm  not;  and  if  I  were  you 
couldn't  have  told  it  through  these  two  veils. 
Possibly  I'd  better  take  your  expression  as  a  com 
pliment."  She  paused,  then  asked  hesitatingly, 
"Shall  I?" 

This  was  the  style  for  which  the  Atwaters  held 
Julia  responsible;  but  they  were  mistaken:  she  was 


GENTLE  JULIA  355 

never  able  to  control  it.  Now  she  went  cheerily 
on:  "Perhaps  not,  as  you  don't  answer.  I 
shouldn't  be  so  bold!  Do  you  suppose  anybody 
at  all  will  be  glad  to  see  me?" 

"  I — I "     He  seemed  to  hope  that  words  would 

come  in  their  own  good  time. 

"Noble!"  she  cried.  "Don't  be  so  glum!"  And 
she  touched  his  arm  with  her  muff,  a  fluffy  contact 
causing  within  him  a  short  convulsion,  naturally 
invisible.  "  Noble,  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  what's 
aU  the  news?" 

"There's — some,"  he  managed  to  inform  her. 
"Some — some  news." 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's— it's " 

"Never  mind,"  she  said  soothingly.  "Get  your 
breath:  I  can  wait.  I  hope  nothing's  wrong  hi  your 
family,  Noble." 

"No.     Oh,  no." 

"It  isn't  just  my  turning  up  unexpectedly  that's 
upset  you  so,  of  course,"  she  dared  to  say.  "Nat 
urally,  I  know  better  than  to  think  such  a  thing  as 
that." 

"Oh,  Julia!"  he  said.    "Oh,  Julia!" 

"What  is  it,  Noble?" 


356  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Noth-ing,"  he  murmured,  disjointing  the  word. 

"How  odd  you  happened  to  be  there  at  the  sta 
tion,"  she  said,  "just  when  my  train  came  in!  You're 
sure  you  weren't  going  away  anywhere?" 

"No;  oh,  no." 

She  was  thoughtful,  then  laughed  confidentially. 
"You're  the  only  person  in  town  that  knows  I'm 
home,  Noble." 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said  humbly. 

She  laughed  again.  "I  came  all  of  a  sudden — 
on  an  impulse.  It's  a  little  idiotic.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it,  Noble.  You  see,  ten  or  twelve  days  ago 
I  wrote  the  family  a  more  or  less  indiscreet  letter. 
That  is,  I  told  them  something  I  wanted  them  to  be 
discreet  about,  and,  of  course,  when  I  got  to  thinking 
it  over,  I  knew  they  wouldn't.  You  see,  I  wrote 
them  something  I  wanted  them  to  keep  a  secret,  but 
the  more  I  thought  about  it,  the  more  I  saw  I'd 
better  hurry  back.  Yesterday  it  got  into  my  head 
that  I'd  better  jump  on  the  next  train  for  home!" 

She  paused,  then  added,  "So  I  did!  About  ten 
or  twelve  days  is  as  long  as  anybody  has  a  right  to 
expect  the  Atwater  family  connection  to  keep  the 
deadliest  kind  of  a  secret,  isn't  it?"  And  as  he  did 
not  respond,  she  explained,  modestly,  "Of  course,  it 


GENTLE  JULIA  357 

wasn't  a  very  deadly  secret;  it  was  really  about 
something  of  only  the  least  importance." 

The  jar  of  this  understatement  restored  Noble's 
voice  to  a  sudden  and  startling  loudness.  "'Only 
the  least  importance'!"  he  shouted.  "With  a  man 
named  Crum!" 

"What!  "she  cried. 

"  Crum ! "  Noble  insisted.  "  That's  exactly  what 
it  said  his  name  was!" 

"What  said  his  name  was?" 

"The  North  End  Daily  Oriole!" 

"What  in  heaven's  name  is  that?" 

"It's  the  children's  paper, Herbert's  and  Florence's : 
your  own  niece  and  nephew,  Julia!  You  don't 
mean  you  deny  it,  do  you,  Julia?" 

She  was  in  great  confusion:     "Do  I  deny  what?" 

"That  his  name's  Crum!"  Noble  said  passion 
ately.  "That  his  name's  Crum  and  that  he's  a 
widower  and  he's  been  divorced  and's  got  nobody 
knows  how  many  children!" 

Julia  sought  to  collect  herself.  "I  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about,"  she  said.  "If  you  mean 
that  I  happened  to  meet  a  very  charming  man  while 
I  was  away,  and  that  his  name  happened  to  be  Crum, 
I  don't  know  why  I  should  go  to  the  trouble  of 


358  GENTLE  JULIA 

denying  it.  But  if  Mr.  Crum  has  had  the  expe 
riences  you  say  he  has,  it  is  certainly  news  to  me! 
I  think  someone  told  me  he  was  only  twenty-six 
years  old.  He  looked  rather  younger." 

"You  'think  someone  told'  you!"  Noble  groaned. 
"Oh,  Julia!  And  here  it  is,  all  down  in  black  and 
white,  in  my  pocket!" 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  you're  talking 
about."  Julia's  tone  was  cold,  and  she  drew  herself 
up  haughtily,  though  the  gesture  was  ineffective 
in  the  darkness  of  that  quivering  interior.  The 
quivering  stopped  just  then,  however,  as  the  taxi- 
cab  came  to  a  rather  abrupt  halt  before  her  house. 

"Will  you  come  in  with  me  a  moment,  please?" 
Julia  said  as  she  got  out.  "There  are  some  things 
I  want  to  ask  you — and  I'm  sure  my  father  hasn't 
come  home  from  downtown  yet.  There's  no  light 
in  the  front  part  of  the  house." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 


f^  •  ^HERE  was  no  light  in  any  other  part  of  the 
1  house,  they  discovered,  after  abandoning 

-*-  the  front  door  bell  for  an  excursion  to  the 
rear.  "That's  disheartening  to  a  hungry  person," 
Julia  remarked:  and  then  remembered  that  she  had 
a  key  to  the  front  door  in  her  purse.  She  opened 
the  door,  and  lighted  the  hall  chandelier  while  Noble 
brought  in  her  bags  from  the  steps  where  the  taxicab 
driver  had  left  them. 

"There's  nobody  home  at  all,"  Julia  said  thought 
fully.  "Not  even  Gamin." 

"No.  Nobody,"  her  sad  companion  agreed, 
shaking  his  head.  "Nobody  at  all,  Julia.  Nobody 
at  all."  Rousing  himself,  he  went  back  for  the  golf 
tools,  and  with  a  lingering  gentleness  set  them  in  a 
corner.  Then,  dumbly,  he  turned  to  go. 

"Wait,  please,"  said  Julia.  "I  want  to  ask  you 
a  few  things — especially  about  what  you've  got  'all 
down  in  black  and  white'  in  your  pocket.  Will 
you  shut  the  front  door,  if  you  please,  and  go  into 

359 


360  GENTLE  JULIA 

the  library  and  turn  on  the  lights  and  wait  there  while 
I  look  over  the  house  and  see  if  I  can  find  why  it's 
all  closed  up  like  this?" 

Noble  went  into  the  library  and  found  the  con 
trol  of  the  lights.  She  came  hurrying  in  after  him. 

"It's  chilly.  The  furnace  seems  to  be  off,"  she 

said.  "I'll "  But  instead  of  declaring  her 

intentions,  she  enacted  them;  taking  a  match  from 
a  little  white  porcelain  trough  on  the  mantelpiece 
and  striking  it  on  the  heel  of  her  glittering  shoe. 
Then  she  knelt  before  the  grate  and  set  the  flame  to 
paper  beneath  the  kindling-wood  and  coal.  "You 
mustn't  freeze,"  she  said,  with  a  thoughtful  kind 
ness  that  killed  him;  and  as  she  went  out  of  the  room 
he  died  again; — for  she  looked  back  over  her  shoulder. 

She  had  pushed  up  her  veils  and  this  was  his  first 
sight  of  that  disastrous  face  in  long  empty  weeks 
and  weeks.  Now  he  realized  that  all  his  aching 
reveries  upon  its  contours  had  shown  but  pallid 
likenesses;  for  here  was  the  worst  thing  about  Julia's 
looks; — even  her  most  extravagant  suitor,  in  ab 
sence,  could  not  dream  an  image  of  her  so  charming 
as  he  found  herself  when  he  saw  her  again.  Thus, 
seeing  Julia  again  was  always  a  discovery.  And 
this  glance  over  her  shoulder  as  she  left  a  room — 


GENTLE  JULIA  361 

not  a  honeyed  glance  but  rather  inscrutable,  yet 
implying  that  she  thought  of  the  occupant,  and  might 
continue  to  think  of  him  while  gone  from  him — 
this  was  one  of  those  ways  of  hers  that  experience 
could  never  drill  out  of  her. 

"I'm  Robinson  Crusoe,  Noble,"  she  said,  when 
she  came  back.  "I  suppose  I  might  as  well  take 
off  my  furs,  though."  But  first  she  unfastened 
the  great  bouquet  she  wore  and  tossed  it  upon  a 
table.  Noble  was  standing  close  to  the  table,  and 
he  moved  away  from  it  hurriedly — a  revulsion  that 
she  failed  to  notice.  She  went  on  to  explain,  as  she 
dropped  her  cloak  and  stole  upon  a  chair:  "Papa's 
gone  away  for  at  least  a  week.  He's  taken  his  ulster. 
It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  the  weather  is, 
but  when  he's  going  away  for  a  week  or  longer,  he 
always  takes  it  with  him,  except  in  summer.  If  he's 
only  going  to  be  gone  two  or  three  days  he  takes 
his  short  overcoat.  And  unless  I'm  here  when  he 
leaves  town  he  always  gives  the  servants  a  holiday 
till  he  gets  back;  so  they've  gone  and  even  taken 
Gamin  with  'em,  and  I'm  all  alone  in  the  house. 
I  can't  get  even  Kitty  Silver  back  until  to-morrow, 
and  then  I'll  probably  have  to  hunt  from  house  to 
house  among  her  relatives.  Papa  left  yesterday, 


362  GENTLE  JULIA 

because  the  numbers  on  his  desk  calender  are  pulled 
off  up  to  to-day,  and  that's  the  first  thing  he  does 
when  he  comes  down  for  breakfast.  So  here  I  am, 
Robinson  Crusoe  for  to-night  at  least." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Noble  huskily,  "I  suppose  you'll 
go  to  some  of  your  aunts  or  brothers  or  cousins  or 
something." 

"No,"  she  said.  "My  trunk  may  come  up  from 
the  station  almost  any  time,  and  if  I  close  the  house 
they'll  take  it  back." 

"You  needn't  bother  about  that,  Julia.  I'll 
look  after  it." 

"How?" 

"I  could  sit  on  the  porch  till  it  comes,"  he  said. 
"I'd  tell  'em  you  wanted  'em  to  leave  it."  He 
hesitated,  painfully.  "I — if  you  want  to  lock  up 
the  house  I — I  could  wait  out  on  the  porch  with  your 
trunk,  to  see  that  it  was  safe,  until  you  come  back 
to-morrow  morning." 

She  looked  full  at  him,  and  he  plaintively  endured 
the  examination. 

"Noble!"  Undoubtedly  she  had  a  moment's 
shame  that  any  creature  should  come  to  such  a  pass 
for  her  sake.  "What  crazy  nonsense!"  she  said; 
and  sat  upon  a  stool  before  the  crackling  fire.  "Do 


GENTLE  JULIA  363 

sit  down,  Noble — unless  your  dinner  will  be  waiting 
for  you  at  home?" 

"No,"  he  murmured.  "They  never  wait  for  me. 
Don't  you  want  me  to  look  after  your  trunk? " 

"Not  by  sitting  all  night  with  it  on  the  porch!" 
she  said.  "I'm  going  to  stay  here  myself.  I'm 
not  going  out;  I  don't  want  to  see  any  of  the  family 
to-night." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  were  hungry?" 

"I  am;  but  there's  enough  in  the  pantry.  I 
looked." 

"Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  see  any  of  'em," 
he  suggested,  "and  they  know  your  father's  away 
and  think  the  house  is  empty,  they're  liable  to  notice 
the  lights  and  come  in,  and  then  you'd  have  to  see 


'em." 


"No,  you  can't  see  the  lights  of  this  room  from  the 
street,  and  I  lit  the  lamp  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall. 
The  light  near  the  front  door,"  Julia  added,  "I  put 
out." 

"You  did?" 

"I  can't  see  any  of  'em  to-night,"  she  said  reso 
lutely.  "Besides,  I  want  to  find  out  what  you  meant 
by  what  you  said  in  the  taxicab  before  I  do  any 
thing  else." 


364  GENTLE  JULIA 

"  What  I  meant  in  the  taxicab?  "  he  echoed.  " Oh, 
Julia!  Julia!" 

She  frowned,  first  at  the  fire,  then,  turning  her 
head,  at  Noble.  "You  seem  to  feel  reproachful 
about  something,"  she  observed. 

"No,  I  don't.  I  don't  feel  reproachful,  Julia.  I 
don't  know  what  I  feel,  but  I  don't  feel  reproachful." 

She  smiled  faintly.  "Don't  you?  Well,  there's 
something  perhaps  you  do  feel,  and  that's  hungry. 
Will  you  stay  to  dinner  with  me — if  I  go  and  get  it?" 

"What?" 

"You  can  have  dinner  with  me — if  you  want  to? 
You  can  stay  till  ten  o'clock — if  you  want  to? 
Wait!"  she  said,  and  jumped  up  and  ran  out  of  the 
room. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  came  back  and  called  softly 
to  him  from  the  doorway;  and  he  followed  her  to  the 
dining-room. 

"It  isn't  much  of  a  dinner,  Noble,"  she  said,  a 
little  tremulously,  being  for  once  (though  strictly 
as  a  cook)  genuinely  apologetic; — but  the  scrambled 
eggs, cold  lamb,  salad,  and  coffee  were  quite  as  "much 
of  a  dinner"  as  Noble  wanted.  To  him  everything 
on  that  table  was  hallowed,  yet  excruciating. 

"Let's  eat  first  and  talk  afterward,"  Julia  pro- 


GENTLE  JULIA  365 

posed;  but  what  she  meant  by  "talk"  evidently  did 
not  exclude  interchange  of  information  regarding 
weather  and  the  health  of  acquaintances,  for  she 
spoke  freely  upon  these  subjects,  while  Noble  mur 
mured  in  response  and  swallowed  a  little  of  the 
sacred  food,  but  more  often  swallowed  nothing. 
Bitterest  of  all  was  his  thought  of  what  this  unex 
ampled  seclusion  with  Julia  could  have  meant  to 
him,  were  those  poisonous  violets  not  at  her  waist 
— for  she  had  put  them  on  again — and  were  there  no 
Crum  in  the  South.  Without  these  fatal  obstruc 
tions,  the  present  moment  would  have  been  to  him 
a  bit  of  what  he  often  thought  of  as  "dream  life"; 
but  all  its  sweetness  was  a  hurt. 

"Now  we'll  talk!"  said  Julia,  when  she  had  brought 
him  back  to  the  library  fire  again,  and  they  were 
seated  before  it.  "Don't  you  want  to  smoke?" 
He  shook  his  head  dismally,  having  no  heart  for 
what  she  proposed.  "Well,  then,"  she  said  briskly, 
but  a  little  ruefully,  "let's  get  to  the  bottom  of  things. 
Just  what  did  you  mean  you  had  'in  black  and  white* 
in  your  pocket?" 

Slowly  Noble  drew  forth  the  historic  copy  of 
The  North  End  Daily  Oriole;  and  with  face 
averted,  placed  it  in  her  extended  hand. 


366  GENTLE  JULIA 

"What  in  the  world!"  she  exclaimed,  unfolding 
it;  and  then  as  its  title  and  statement  of  own 
ership  came  into  view,  "Oh,  yes!  I  see.  Aunt 
Carrie  wrote  me  that  Uncle  Joseph  had  given 
Herbert  a  printing-press.  I  suppose  Herbert's  the 
editor?" 

"And  that  Rooter  boy,"  Noble  said  sadly.  "I 
think  maybe  your  little  niece  Florence  has  some 
thing  to  do  with  it,  too." 

"'Something'  to  do  with  it?  She  usually  has 
all  to  do  with  anything  she  gets  hold  of !  But  what's 
it  got  to  do  with  me?" 

"You'll  see!"  he  prophesied  accurately. 

She  began  to  read,  laughing  at  some  of  the  items 
as  she  went  along;  then  suddenly  she  became  rigid, 
holding  the  small  journal  before  her  in  a  transfixed 
hand. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.     "0/L'" 

"That's— that's  what— I  meant,"  Noble  ex 
plained. 

Julia's  eyes  grew  dangerous.  "The  little  fiends!" 
she  cried.  "Oh,  really,  this  is  a  long-suffering 
family,  but  it's  time  these  outrages  were  stopped!" 

She  jumped  up.  "Isn't  it  frightful?"  she  de 
manded  of  Noble. 


GENTLE  JULIA  367 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  he  said,  with  a  dismal  fervour.  "No 
body  knows  that  better  than  I  do,  Julia!" 

"I  mean  this!"  she  cried,  extending  the  Oriole 
toward  him  with  a  vigorous  gesture.  "I  mean 
this  dreadful  story  about  poor  Mr.  Crum!" 

"But  it's  true,"  he  said. 

"Noble  Dill!" 

"Julia?" 

"Do  you  dare  to  say  you  believed  it?" 

He  sprang  up.     "It  isn't  true?" 

"Not  one  word  of  it!  I  told  you  Mr.  Crum  is 
only  twenty-six.  He  hasn't  been  out  of  college 
more  than  three  or  four  years,  and  it's  the  most 
terrible  slander  to  say  he's  ever  been  married  at 
all!" 

Noble  dropped  back  into  his  chair  of  misery. 
"I  thought  you  meant  it  wasn't  true." 

"I've  just  told  you  there  isn't  one  word  of  tr " 

"But  you're — engaged,"  Noble  gulped.  "You're 
engaged  to  him,  Julia!" 

She  appeared  not  to  hear  this.  "I  suppose  it  can 
be  lived  down,"  she  said.  "To  think  of  Uncle 
Joseph  putting  such  a  thing  into  the  hands  of  those 
awful  children!" 

"But,  Julia,  you're  eng " 


368  GENTLE  JULIA 

"Noble!"  she  said  sharply. 

"Well,  you  are  eng " 

Julia  drew  herself  up.  "Different  people  mean 
different  things  by  that  word,"  she  said  with  sever 
ity,  like  an  annoyed  school-teacher.  "There  are 
any  number  of  shades  of  meaning  to  words;  and  if 
I  used  the  word  you  mention,  in  writing  home  to  the 
family,  I  may  have  used  a  certain  shade  and  they  may 
have  thought  I  intended  another." 

"But,  Julia " 

"Mr.  Crum  is  a  charming  young  man,"  she  con 
tinued  with  the  same  primness.  "I  liked  him  very 
much  indeed.  I  liked  him  very,  very  much.  I 
liked  him  very,  very " 

"I  understand,"  he  interrupted.  "Don't  say  it 
any  more,  Julia." 

"No;  you  don't  understand!  At  first  I  liked  him 
very  much — in  fact,  I  still  do,  of  course — I'm  sure 
he's  one  of  the  best  and  most  attractive  young  men 
in  the  world.  I  think  he's  a  man  any  girl  ought  to 
be  happy  with,  if  he  were  only  to  be  considered  by 
himself.  I  don't  deny  that.  I  liked  him  very  much 
indeed,  and  I  don't  deny  that  for  several  days  after 
he — after  he  proposed  to  me — I  don't  deny  I  thought 
something  serious  might  come  of  it.  But  at  that 


GENTLE  JULIA  369 

time,  Noble,  I  hadn't — hadn't  really  thought  of 
what  it  meant  to  give  up  living  here  at  home,  with 
all  the  family  and  everything — and  friends — friends 
like  you,  Noble.  I  hadn't  thought  what  it  would 
mean  to  me  to  give  aU  this  up.  And  besides,  there 
was  something  very  important.  At  the  time  1 
wrote  that  letter  mentioning  poor  Mr.  Crum  to 

the  family,  Noble,  I  hadn't— I  hadn't "  She 

paused,  visibly  in  some  distress.  "I  hadn't " 

"You  hadn't  what?"  he  cried. 

"I  hadn't  met  his  mother!" 

Noble  leaped  to  his  feet.  "Julia!  You  aren't 
— you  aren't  engaged?" 

"I  am  not,"  she  answered  decisively.  "If  I 
ever  was — in  the  slightest — I  certainly  am  not 


now." 


Poor  Noble  was  transfigured.  He  struggled;  mak 
ing  half -formed  gestures,  speaking  half -made  words. 
A  rapture  glowed  upon  him. 

"Julia — Julia "  He  choked.  "Julia,  promise 

me  something.  Will  you  promise  me  something? 
Julia,  promise  to  promise  me  something." 

"I  will,"  she  said  quickly.  "What  do  you  want 
me  to  do?" 

Then  he  saw  that  it  was  his  time  to  speak;  that 


370  GENTLE  JULIA 

this  was  the  moment  for  him  to  dare  everything 
and  ask  for  the  utmost  he  could  hope  from  her. 

"Give  me  your  word!"  he  said,  still  radiantly 
struggling.  "Give  me  your  word — your  word — 
your  word  and  your  sacred  promise,  Julia — that 
you'll  never  be  engaged  to  anybody  at  all!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

A  SIX  minutes  after  four  o'clock  on  the  second 
afternoon   following  Julia's   return,   Noble 
Dill  closed  his  own  gate  behind  him  and 
set  forth  upon  the  four-minute  walk    that  would 
bring  him   to   Julia's.     He   wore   a   bit   of   scarlet 
geranium  in  the  buttonhole  of  his  new  light  overcoat; 
he  flourished  a  new  walking-stick  and  new  grey  gloves. 
As  for  his  expression,  he  might  have  been  a  bride 
groom. 

Passing  the  mouth  of  an  alley,  as  he  swung  along 
the  street,  he  was  aware  of  a  commotion,  of  missiles 
hurled  and  voices  clashed.  In  this  alley  there  was  a 
discord:  passion  and  mockery  were  here  inimically 
intermingled. 

Casting  a  glance  that  way,  Noble  could  see  but 
one  person;  a  boy  of  fourteen  who  looked  through  a 
crack  in  a  board  fence,  steadfastly  keeping  an  eye 
to  this  aperture  and  as  continuously  calling  through 
it,  holding  his  head  to  a  level  for  this  purpose,  but 
at  the  same  time  dancing — and  dancing  tauntingly, 

371 


372  GENTLE  JULIA 

it  was  conveyed — with  the  other  parts  of  his  body. 
His  voice  was  now  sweet,  now  piercing,  and  again 
far  too  dulcet  with  the  overkindness  of  burlesque; 
and  if,  as  it  seemed,  he  was  unburdening  his  spleen, 
his  spleen  was  a  powerful  one  and  gorged.  He  ap 
peared  to  be  in  a  torment  of  tormenting;  and  his 
success  was  proved  by  the  pounding  of  bricks,  parts 
of  bricks  and  rocks  of  size  upon  the  other  side  of  the 
fence,  as  close  to  the  crack  as  might  be. 

"Oh,  dolling!"  he  wailed,  his  tone  poisonously 
amorous.  "Oh,  dolling  Henery!  Oo's  dot  de  mos* 
booful  eyes  in  a  dray  bid  nasty  world,  Henery! 
Oh,  has  I  dot  booful  eyes,  dolling  Patty watty? 
Yes,  I  has  !  I  has  dot  pretty  eyes!"  His  voice 
rose  unbearably.  "Oh,  what  prettiest  eyes  I  dot! 
Me  and  Herbie  Atwater!  Oh,  my  booful  eyes! 
Oh,  my  booful " 

But  even  as  he  reached  this  apex,  the  head,  shoul 
ders,  and  arms  of  Herbert  Atwater  rose  momentarily 
above  the  fence  across  the  alley,  behind  the  tor 
mentor.  Herbert's  expression  was  implacably  re 
sentful,  and  so  was  the  gesture  with  which  he  hurled 
an  object  at  the  comedian  preoccupied  with  the 
opposite  fence.  This  object,  upon  reaching  its 
goal,  as  it  did  more  with  a  splash  than  a  thud, 


GENTLE  JULIA  373 

was  revealed  as  a  tomato,  presumably  in  a  useless 
state.  The  taunter  screamed  in  astonishment,  and 
after  looking  vainly  for  an  assailant,  began  necessar 
ily  to  remove  his  coat. 

Noble,  passing  on,  thought  he  recognized  the  boy 
as  one  of  the  Torbin  family,  but  he  was  not  sure, 
and  he  had  no  idea  that  the  episode  was  in  any 
possible  manner  to  be  connected  with  his  own  recent 
history.  How  blindly  we  walk  our  ways!  As 
Noble  flourished  down  the  street,  there  appeared  a 
wan  face  at  a  prison  window;  and  the  large  eyes 
looked  out  upon  him  wistfully.  But  Noble  went 
on,  as  unwitting  that  he  had  to  do  with  this  prison 
as  that  he  had  to  do  with  Master  Torbin's  tomato. 

The  face  at  the  window  was  not  like  Charlotte 
Corday's,  nor  was  the  window  barred,  though  the 
prisoner  knew  a  little  solace  in  wondering  if  she  did 
not  suggest  that  famous  picture.  For  all  purposes, 
except  during  school  hours,  the  room  was  certainly  a 
cell;  and  the  term  of  imprisonment  was  set  at  three 
days.  Uncle  Joseph  had  been  unable  to  remain  at 
the  movies  forever:  people  do  have  to  go  home 
eventually,  especially  when  accompanied  by  thir 
teen-year-old  great-nieces.  Florence  had  finally  to 
face  the  question  awaiting  her;  and  it  would  have 


374  GENTLE  JULIA 

been  better  for  her  had  she  used  less  imagination  in 
her  replies. 

Yet  she  was  not  wholly  despondent  as  her  eyes 
followed  the  disappearing  figure  of  Noble  Dill. 
His  wholesome  sprightliness  was  visible  at  any  dis 
tance;  and  who  would  not  take  a  little  pride  in  having 
been  even  the  mistaken  instrument  of  saving  so  gay 
a  young  man  from  the  loss  of  his  reason?  No; 
Florence  was  not  cast  down.  Day-after-to-morrow 
she  would  taste  Freedom  again,  and  her  profoundest 
regret  was  that  after  all  her  Aunt  Julia  was  not  to 
be  married.  Florence  had  made  definite  plans  for 
the  wedding,  especially  for  the  principal  figure  at 
the  ceremony.  This  figure,  as  Florence  saw  things, 
would  have  been  that  of  the  "Flower  Girl,"  nat 
urally  a  niece  of  the  bride;  but  she  was  able  to 
dismiss  the  bright  dream  with  some  philosophy. 
And  to  console  her  for  everything,  had  she  not  a 
star  in  her  soul?  Had  she  not  discovered  that  she 
could  write  poetry  whenever  she  felt  like  it? 

Noble  passed  from  her  sight,  but  nevertheless 
continued  his  radiant  progress  down  Julia's  Street. 
Life  stretched  before  him,  serene,  ineffably  fragrant, 
unending.  He  saw  it  as  a  flower-strewn  sequence 
of  calls  upon  Julia,  walks  with  Julia,  talks  with  Julia 


GENTLE  JULIA  375 

by  the  library  fire.  Old  Mr.  Atwater  was  to  be 
away  four  days  longer,  and  Julia,  that  great-hearted 
bride-not-to-be,  had  given  him  her  promise. 

Blushing,  indeed  divinely,  she  had  promised  him 
upon  her  sacred  word,  never  so  long  as  she  lived,  to 
be  engaged  to  anybody  at  all. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or    i 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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1          JUL  1  0  1963 

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|       MAY    7l9b6 

1     mm  OCT  28  191 

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LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
(D3279slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  Californr' 

Berkeley 


YB  39965 


•-.  : 


OH 

GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


